THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


AFTERNOON    SONGS 


AFTERNOON    SONGS 


JULIA    C.    R.    DORR 


NEW-YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1885 


Copyright,  1885,  by 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Press  of  J.J.  Little  &  Co., 
Nos.  10  to  20  Astor  Place,  New  York. 


L 


TO  S.  M.   D. 

r.T  us  go  forth  and  gather  golden-rod ! 
O  love,  my  love,  see  how  upon  the  hills, 
L^  Where  still  the  warm  air  palpitates  and  thrills, 

Jj/  And  earth  lies  breathless  in  the  smile  of  God, 

>_  Like  plumes  of  serried  hosts  its  tassels  nod! 

^f  All  the  green  vales  its  golden  glory  fills  ; 

2[  By  lonely  waysides  and  by  mountain  rills 

^3  Its  yello^u  banners  flaunt  above  the  sod. 

Perhaps  the  apple-blossoms  were  more  fair  ; 

Perhaps,  dear  heart,  the  roses  were  more  sweet 
^?  June's  dewy  roses,  with  their  buds  half  blown 

in  Yet  what  care  we,  while  tremulous  and  rare 

;»  This  golden  sunshine  falleth  at  otir  feet 

And  song  lives  on,  though  summer  birds  have  flown : 
August,  1884. 

^  Let  the  words  stand  as  they  were  writ,  dear  heart ! 

^  Although  no  more  for  thee  in  earthly  bowers 

^  Shall  bloom  the  earlier  or  the  later  flowers ;  — 

Although  to-day  ''tis  spring-time  where  thou  art, 
While  I,  with  Autumn,  wander  far  apart, — 
Yet,  in  the  name  of  that  long  love  of  ours, 
Tested  by  years  and  tried  by  sun  and  showers, 
<  Let  the  words  stand  as  they  were  writ,  dear  heart ! 

September,  1883. 


452642 


CONTENTS 

PAGE. 

DEDICA  TION.    (  To  S.  M.  D.)  v 

INTRODUCTORY  POEM xi 

SILENCE i 

WHEN  LESSER  LOVES 2 

KNOWING 3 

DARKNESS 4 

GEORGE  ELIOT 5 

SANCTIFIED 6 

TO-MORROW.     I. —  II 7 

A  THOUGHT 9 

A  MESSAGE 10 

THE  PLACE.     I.— II.  — Ill 11 

GIFTS  FOR  THE  KING 14 

RECOGNITION.     I. — II 15 

O  EARTH  !  ART  THOU  NOT  WEARY  ? " 17 

ALEXANDER 18 

To  A  GODDESS 19 

O.  W.  H 20 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

A  DREAM  OF  SONGS  UNSUNG 21 

QUESTIONING  A  ROSE 33 

THE  FALLOW  FIELD 36 

OUT  AND  IN 40 

HER  FLOWERS 42 

THREE  LADDIES 45 

SUMMER,  1882.     (R.  W.  E.) 48 

THORNLESS  ROSES 50 

TREASURE-SHIPS 52 

CHOOSING 55 

NOT  MINE 57 

THE  CHAMBER  OF  SILENCE 60 

THREE  ROSES 65 

FOUR  LETTERS.     (Inscribed  to  Dr.  O.  \V.  Holmes)     66 

VALDEMAR 69 

JUBILATE  ! 84 

EASTER  LILIES 86 

"  O  WIND  THAT  BLOWS  OUT  OF  THE  WEST  " 88 

A  SUMMER  SONG 91 

THE  URN 93 

THE  PARSON'S  DAUGHTER 95 

MARCH  FOURTH.     1881-1882 100 

ROY   .  .102 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE. 

THE  PAINTER'S  PRAYER 104 

FROM  EXILE 108 

A  MOTHER-SONG I  H 

EASTER  MORNING 1 16 

SEALED  ORDERS 122 

No  MORE  THE  THUNDER  OF  CANNON  " 126 

AN  ANNIVERSARY 128 

MARTHA 131 

THE  HOUR 133 

THE  CLOSED  GATE 135 

CONTENT 138 

WONDERLAND 140 

THE  GUEST  144 

FORESHADOWINGS 147 

AN  OLD-FASHIONED  GARDEN 150 

DISCONTENT 1 54 

THE  DOVES  AT  MENDON 159 

A  LATE  ROSE 163 

PERIWINKLE 165 

AFTERNOON 168 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  PROW 172 

GRANT 176 

THOU  AND  I. .  .  .182 


SOJJGS, 


TT  is   mid-afternoon.      Long,  long"   ago 
J.   Each  morning-glory  sheathed  the  slender  horn 

It  blew  so  gayly  on  the  hills  of  morn. 
JLnd  fainted  in  the  noontide's  fervid  glow. 

&one  are  the  dew-drops  from  the  rose's  heart,  — 
Gone  with  the  freshness  of  the  early  hours. 
The  songs  that  filled  the  air  with  silver  showers 

The  lovely   dreams  that  were  of  morn   a  part. 

Yet  still  in  tender  light  the  garden  lies, 

The  warm,  sweet  winds  are  whispering  soft  and  low; 
grown  bees   and   butterflies  flit  to   and  fro; 

The  peace  of  heaven  is  in  the  o'erarching  skies. 

jlnd   here  be  four-o'  cloclcs  .  just  opening   wide 
Their  many-colored  petals  to  the  sun, 
fts  glad  to  live  as  if  the  evening  dun 

Were  far  away,   and  morning   had  not   died  ! 


SILENCE. 

0  GOLDEN  Silence,  bid  our  souls  be  still, 
And  on  the  foolish  fretting  of  our  care 
Lay  thy  soft  touch  of  healing  unaware ! 
Once,  for  a  half  hour,  even  in  heaven  the  thrill 
Of  the  clear  harpings  ceased  the  air  to  fill 

With  soft  reverberations.     Thou  wert  there. 
And  all  the  shining  seraphs  owned  thee  fair,- 
A  white,  hushed  Presence  on  the  heavenly  hill. 
Bring  us  thy  peace,  O  Silence!     Song  is  sweet; 
Tuneful  is  baby  laughter,  and  the  low 

Murmur  of  dying  winds  among  the  trees, 
And  dear  the  music  of  Love's  hurrying  feet; 
Yet  only  he  who  knows  thee  learns  to  know 
The  secret  soul  of  loftiest  harmonies. 


WHEN    LESSER    LOVES. 

WHEN  lesser  loves  by  the  relentless  flow 

Of  mighty  currents  from  my  arms  were  torn, 
And  swept,  unheeding,  to  that  silent  bourn 

Whose  mystic  shades  no  living  man  may  know. 

By  night,  by  day,  I  sang  my  songs  ;    and  so, 
Out  of  the  sackcloth  that  my  soul  had  worn, 
Weaving  my  purple,  I  forgot  to  mourn, 

Pouring  my  grief  out  in  melodious  woe ! 

Now  am  I  dumb,  dear  heart.  My  lips  are  mute. 
Yet  if  from  yonder  blue  height  thou  dost  lean 
Earthward,  remembering  love's  last  wordless  kiss, 

Know  thou  no  trembling  thrills  of  harp  or  lute, 
Dying  soft  wails  and  tender  songs  between, 
Were  half  so  voiceful  as  this  silence  is ! 


KNOWING. 

ONE  summer  day,  to  a  young  child  I  said, 
"  Write  to  thy  mother,  boy."     With  earnest  face, 
And  laboring  fingers  all  unused  to  trace 

The  mystic  characters,  he  bent  his  head 

(That  should  have  danced  amid  the  flowers  instead) 
Over  the  blurred  page  for  a  half-hour's  space; 
Then  with  a  sigh  that  burdened  all  the  place 

Cried,  "  Mamma  knows ! "  and  out  to  sunshine  sped. 

O  soul  of  mine,  when  tasks  are  hard  and  long, 
And  life  so  crowds  thee  with  its  stress  and  strain 
That  thou,  half  fainting,  art  too  tired  to  pray, 

Drink  thou  this  wine  of  blessing  and  be  strong ! 
God  knows !  What  though  the  lips  be  dumb  with  pain, 
Or  the  pen  drops  ?    He  knows  what  thou  wouldst  say- 


DARKNESS. 

COME,  blessed  Darkness,  come,  and  bring  thy  balm 
For  eyes  grown  weary  of  the  garish  Day ! 
Come  with  thy  soft,  slow  steps,  thy  garments  gray, 

Thy  veiling  shadows,  bearing  in  thy  palm 

The  poppy-seeds  of  slumber,  deep  and  calm ! 
Come  with  thy  patient  stars,  whose  far-off  ray 
Steals  the  hot  fever  of  the  soul  away, 

Thy  stillness,  sweeter  than  a  chanted  psalm ! 

O  blessed  Darkness,  Day  indeed  is  fair, 

And  Light  is  dear  when  summer  days  are  long, 

And  one  by  one  the  harvesters  go  by; 

But  so  is  rest  sweet,  and  surcease  from  care, 
And  folded  palms,  and  hush  of  evensong, 

And  all  the  unfathomed  silence  of  the  sky ! 


GEORGE   ELIOT. 

PASS  on,  O  world,  and  leave  her  to  her  rest ! 

Brothers,  be  silent  while  the  drifting  snow 

Weaves  its  white  pall  above  her,  lying  low 
With  empty  hands  crossed  idly  on  her  breast. 
O  sisters,  let  her  sleep !  while  unrepressed 

Your  pitying  tears  fall  silently  and  slow, 

Washing  her  spotless,  in  their  crystal  flow, 
Of  that  one  stain  whereof  she  stands  confessed. 
Are  we  so  pure  that  we  should  scoff  at  her, 

Or  mock  her  now,  low  lying  in  her  tomb  ? 

God  knows  how  sharp  the  thorn  her  roses  wore, 
Even  what  time  their  petals  were  astir 

In  the  warm  sunshine,  odorous  with  perfume. 

Leave  her  to  Him  who  weighed  the  cross  she  bore! 


SANCTIFIED. 

A  HOLY  presence  hath  been  here,  and,  lo, 
The  place  is  sanctified !  From  off  thy  feet 
Put  thou  thy  shoes,  my  soul !     The  air  is  sweet 
Even  yet  with  heavenly  odors,  and  I  know 
If  thou  dost  listen,  thou  wilt  hear  the  flow 
Of  most  celestial  music,  and  the  beat 
Of  rhythmic  pinions.     It  is  then  most  meet 
That  thou  shouldst  watch  and  wait,  lest  to  and  fro, 
Should  pass  the  heavenly  messengers  and  thou, 
Haply,  shouldst  miss  their  coming.     O  my  soul, 
Count  this  fair  room  a  temple  from  whose  shrine, 
Led  by  an  angel,  though  we  know  not  how, 
Thy  friend  and  lover  dropped  the  cup  of  dole, 
And  passed  from  thy  love  to  the  Love  Divine  ! 


TO-MORROW. 


MYSTERIOUS  One,  inscrutable,  unknown, 
A  silent  Presence,  with  averted  face 
Whose  lineaments  no  mortal  eye  can  trace, 

And  robes  of  trailing  darkness  round  thee  thrown, 

Over  the  midnight  hills  thou  comest  alone! 

What  thou  dost  bring  to  me  from  farthest  space. 
What  blessing  or  what  ban,  what  dole,  what  grace, 

I  may  not  know.    Thy  secrets  are  thine  own! 

Yet,  asking  not  for  lightest  word  or  sign 
To  tell  me  what  the  hidden  fate  may  be, 

Without  a  murmur,  or  a  quickened  breath, 

Unshrinkingly  I  place  my  hand  in  thine, 

And  through  the  shadowy  depths  go  forth  with  thee 

To  meet,  as  thou  shall  lead,  or  life,  or  death! 


TO-MORROW. 


II. 

Then,  if  I  fear  not  thee,  thou  veiled  One 
Whose  face  I  know  not,  why  fear  I  to  meet 
Beyond  the  everlasting  hills  her  feet 

Who  cometh  when  all  Yesterdays  are  done  ? 

Shall  I,  who  have  proved  thee  good,  thy  sister  shun  ? 
O  thou  To-morrow,  who  dost  feel  the  beat 
Of  life's  long,  rhythmic  pulses,  strong  and  sweet, 

In  the  far  realm  that  hath  no  need  of  sun  — 

Thou  who  art  fairer  than  the  fair  To-day 

That  I  have  held  so  dear,  and  loved  so  much  — 

When,  slow  descending  from  the  hills  divine, 

Thou  summonest  me  to  join  thee  on  thy  way, 
Let  me  not  shrink  nor  tremble  at  thy  touch, 

Nor  fear  to  break  thy  bread  and  drink  thy  wine! 


A   THOUGHT. 

(SUGGESTED  BY  READING  "A  MIRACLE  IN  STONE.") 

OH,  thou  supreme,  all-wise,  eternal  One, 

Thou  who  art  Lord  of  lords,  and  King  of  kings, 
In  whose  high  praise  each  flaming  seraph  sings; 

Thou  at  whose  word  the  morning  stars  begun 

With  song  and  shout  their  glorious  course  to  run; 
Thou  unto  whom  the  great  sea  lifts  its  wings, 
And  earth,  with  laden  hands,  rich  tribute  brings 

From  every  shore  that  smiles  beneath  the  sun; 
Thou  who  didst  write  thy  name  upon  the  hills 

And  bid  the  mountains  speak  for  thee  alway, 
Yet  gave  sweet  messages  to  murmuring  rills, 

And  to  each  flower  that  breathes  its  life  away  — 
Oh !  dost  thou  smile,  or  frown,  when  man's  conceit 
Seeks  in  this  pile  of  stone  the  impress  of  thy  feet  ? 


A  MESSAGE. 

I  BID  thee  sing  the  song  I  would  have  sung, — 
The  high,  pure  strain  that  since  my  soul  was  born, 
Clearer  and  sweeter  than  the  bells  of  morn, 

Through  all  its  chambers  hath  divinely  rung! 

In  thee  let  my  whole  being  find  a  tongue ; 

Pluck  thou  the  rose  where  I  have  plucked  the  thorn, 
Nor  leave  the  perfect  flower  to  fade  forlorn. 

Youth  holds  the  world  in  fee, —  and  thou  art  young ! 
O  my  glad  singer  of  the  tuneful  voice, 

Where  my  wing  falters  be  thou  strong  to  soar, 
Striking  the  deep,  clear  notes  beyond  my  reach, 
Beyond  the  plummet  of  a  woman's  speech. 

Sing  my  songs  for  me,  and  from  some  far  shore 
My  happy  soul  shall  hear  thee  and  rejoice! 


THE    PLACE. 

I   GO  TO   PREPARE   A   PLACE   FOR   YOU." 


O  HOLY  Place,  we  know  not  where  thou  art ! 
Though  one  by  one  our  well-beloved  dead 
From  our  close  claspings  to  thy  bliss  have  fled, 

They  send  no  word  back  to  the  breaking  heart; 

And  if,  perchance,  their  angels  fly  athwart 
The  silent  reaches  of  the  abyss  wide-spread, 
The  swift  white  wings  we  see  not,  but  instead 

Only  the  dark  void  keeping  us  apart. 

Where  did  he  set  thee,  O  thou  Holy  Place? 

Made  he  a  new  world  in  the  heavens  high  hung, 
So  far  from  this  poor  earth  that  even  yet 

Its  first  glad  rays  have  traversed  not  the  space 
That  lies  between  us,  nor  their  glory  flung 
On  the  old  home  its  sons  can  ne'er  forget? 


THE  PLACE. 


But  what  if  on  some  fair,  auspicious  night, 

Like  that  on  which  the  shepherds  watched  of  old, 
Down  from  far  skies,  in  burning  splendor  rolled, 

Shall  stream  the  radiance  of  a  star  more  bright 

Than  ever  yet  hath  shone  on  mortal  sight  — 
Swift  shafts  of  light,  like  javelins  of  gold, 
Wave  after  wave  of  glory  manifold, 

From  zone  to  zenith  flooding  all  the  height  ? 

And  what  if,  moved  by  some  strange  inner  sense, 
Some  instinct,  than  pure  reason  wiser  far, 
Some  swift  clairvoyance  that  annulleth  space. 

All  men  shall  cry,  with  sudden  joy  intense, 
"  Behold,  behold  this  new  resplendent  star  — 
Our 'heaven  at  last  revealed! — the   Place!    the 
Place ! " 


THE  PLACE. 


Then  shall  the  heavenly  host  with  one  accord 
Veil  their  bright  faces  in  obeisance  meet, 
While  swift  they  haste  the  Glorious  One  to  greet. 
Then  shall  Orion  own  at  last  his  Lord, 
And  from  his  belt  unloose  the  blazing  sword, 
While  pale  proud  Ashtaroth  with  footsteps  fleet, 
Her  jewelled  crown  drops  humbly  at  his  feet, 
And  Lyra  strikes  her  harp's  most  rapturous  chord, 
O  Earth,  bid  all  your  lonely  isles  rejoice! 
Break  into  singing,  all  ye  silent  hills; 

And  ye,  tumultuous  seas,  make  quick  reply! 
Let  the  remotest  desert  find  a  voice! 
The  whole  creation  to  its  centre  thrills, 

For  the  new  light  of  Heaven  is  in  the  sky! 


GIFTS    FOR    THE    KING. 
(H.  W.  L.,  FEB.  27111.) 

WHAT  good  gifts  can  we  bring  to  thee,  O  King, 
O  royal  poet,  on  this  day  of  days  ? 
No  golden  crown,  for  thou  art  crowned  with  bays ; 

No  jewelled  sceptre,  and  no  signet  ring, 

O'er  distant  realms  far-flashing  rays  to  fling; 
For  well  we  know  thy  beckoning  finger  sways 
A  mightier  empire,  and  the  world  obeys. 

No  lute,  for  thou  hast  only  need  to  sing; 

No  rare  perfumes,  for  thy  pure  life  makes  sweet 
The  air  about  thee,  even  as  when  the  rose 

Swings  its  bright  censer  down  the  garden-path. 

Love  drops  its  fragrant  lilies  at  thy  feet; 

Fame   breathes   thy   name   to   each   sweet   wind 
that  blows. 

What  can  we  bring  to  him  who  all  things  hath? 


RECOGNITION. 

(H.  W.  L.) 


WHO  was  the  first  to  bid  thee  glad  all-hail, 
O  friend  and  master?  Who  with  winged  feet 
Over  the  heavenly  hills^  flew,  fast  and  fleet. 

To  bring  thee  welcome  from  beyond  the  veil  ? 

The  mighty  bards  of  old? — Thy  Dante,  pale 
With  high  thoughts  even  yet,  Virgil  the  sweet, 
Old  Homer,  trumpet-tongued,  and  Chaucer,  meet 

To  clasp  thy  stainless  hand?   What  nightingale 

Of  all  that  sing  in  heaven  sang  first  to  thee  ? 
Through  all  the  hallelujahs  didst  thou  hear 
Spencer  still  pouring  his  melodious  lays, 

Majestic  Milton's  clarion,  strong  and  free, 
Or,  golden  link  between,  the  far  and  near, 
Bryant's  clear  chanting  of  the  eternal  days  ? 


16  RECOGNITION. 


II. 

Nay,  but  not  these !  not  these !  Even  though  apace, 
Long  rank  on  rank,  with  swift  yet  stately  tread 
They  came  to  meet  thee — the  immortal  dead — 

Yet  Love  ran  faster!    All  the  lofty  place, 

All  the  wide,  luminous,  enchanted  space 

Glistened  with  Shining  Ones  who  thither  sped — 
The  countless  host  thy  song  had  comforted ! 

What  light,  what  love  illumed  each  radiant  face! 

The  Rachels  thou  hadst  sung  to  in  the  dark, 
The  Davids  who  for  Absaloms  had  wept, 

The  fainting  ones  who  drank  thy  balm  and  wine. 

High  souls  that  soared  with  thee  as  soars  the  lark, 

Children  who  named  thee,  smiling,  ere  they  slept — 

These  gave  thee  first  the  heavenly  countersign  ! 


O  EARTH!  ART  THOU  NOT  WEARY?" 

O  Earth !  art  thou  not  weary  of  thy  graves  ? 
Dear,  patient  mother  Earth,  upon  thy  breast 
How  are  they  heaped  from  farthest  east  to  west ! 

From  the  dim  north,  where  wild  the  storm- wind  raves 

O'er  the  cold  surge  that  chills  the  shore  it  laves, 
To  sunlit  isles  by  softest  seas  caressed, 
Where  roses  bloom  alway  and  song-birds  nest, 

How  thick  they  lie — like  flecks  upon  the  waves! 

There  is  no  mountain-top  so  far  and  high, 
No  desert  so  remote,  no  vale  so  deep, 
No  spot  by  man  so  long  untenanted, 

But  the  pale  moon,  slow  marching  up  the  sky, 
Sees  over  some  lone  grave  the  shadows  creep ! 
O  Earth  !  art  thou  not  weary  of  thy  dead  ? 


ALEXANDER. 

THERE  was  a  man  whom  all  men  called  The  Great. 
Low  lying  on  his  death-bed,  we  are  told, 
He  bade  his  courtiers  (when  he  should  be  cold, 

Breathless,  and  silent  in  his  last  estate, 

And  they  who  were  to  bury  him  should  wait 
Outside  the  palace)  that  no  cerecloth's  fold 
Or  winding-sheet  should  round  his  hands  be  rolled : 

Those  helpless  hands  that  once  had  ruled  the  state ! 

Thus  spake  he :    "  On  the  black  pall  let  them  lie, 

Empty  and  lorn,  that  all  the  world  may  see 

How  of  his  riches  there  was  nothing  left 

To  Alexander  when  he  came  to  die." 

Lord  of  two  worlds,  as  treasureless  was  he 
As  any  beggar  of  his  crust  bereft ! 


TO   A   GODDESS. 

LIFT  up  thy  torch,  O  Goddess,  grand  and  fair! 
Let  its  light  stream  across  the  waiting  seas 
As  banners  float  upon  the  yielding  breeze 

From  the  king's  tent,  his  presence  to  declare. 

And  as  his  heralds  haste  to  do  their  share, 
Shouting  his  praise  and  sounding  his  decrees, 
So  let  the  waves  in  loftiest  symphonies 

Proclaim  thy  glory  to  the  listening  air ! 

Thou  star-crowned  one,  the  nations  watch  for  thee. 
For  thee  the  patient  earth  has  waited  long, — 
To  thee  her  toiling  millions  stretch  their  hands 

From  the  far  hills  and  o'er  the  rolling  sea. 
Lift  up  thy  torch,  O  beautiful  and  strong, 
A  beacon-light  to  earth's  remotest  lands. 


O.  W.  H. 

AUGUST  29,  1809. 

"  How  SHALL  I  crown  this  child  ?  "  fair  Summer  cried. 

"May  wasted  all  her  violets  long  ago; 

No  longer  on  the  hills  June's  roses  glow, 
Flushing  with  tender  bloom  the  pastures  wide. 
My  stately  lilies  one  by  one  have  died; 

The  clematis  is  but  a  ghost  —  and  lo! 

In  the  fair  meadow-lands  no  daisies  blow; 
How  shall  I  crown  this  Summer  child  ? "  she  sighed. 
Then  quickly  smiled.     "  For  him,  for  him,"  she  said, 
"  On  every  hill  my  golden-rod  shall  flame, 
Token  of  all  my  prescient  soul  foretells. 
His  shall  be  golden  song  and  golden  fame  — 
Long  golden  years  with  love  and  honor  wed, — 
And  crowns,  at  last,  of  silver  immortelles !  " 


A   DREAM    OF   SONGS    UNSUNG. 

WHENCE  it  came  I  did  not  know, 
How  it  came  I  could  not  tell, 
But  I  heard  the  music  flow 
Like  the  pealing  of  a  bell; 
Up  and  down  the  wild-wood  arches, 
Through  the  sombre  firs  and  larches, 
Long  I  heard  it  rise  and  swell;  — 
Long  I  lay,  with  half-shut  eyes, 
Wrapped  in  dreams  of  Paradise ! 

Then  the  wondrous  music  poured 
Yet  a  fuller,  stronger  strain, 
Till  my  soul  in  rapture  soared 
Out  of  reach  of  toil  and  pain ! 
Then,  oh  then,  I  know  not  how, 
Then,  oh  then,  I  know  not  where, 
I  was  borne,  serene  and  slow, 


A   DREAM  OF  SONGS   UNSUNG. 

Through  the  boundless  fields  of  air  — 
Past  the  sunset's  golden  bars, 
Past  long  ranks  of  glittering  stars, 
To  a  realm  where  time  was  not, 
And  its  secrets  were  forgot! 

Land  of  shadows,  who  may  know 
Where  thy  golden  lilies  blow  ? 
Land  of  shadows,  on  what  star 
In  the  blue  depths  shining  far, 
Or  in  what  appointed  place 
In  the  unmeasured  realms  of  space, 
High  as  heaven,  or  deep  as  hell, 
Thou  dost  lie,  what  tongue  can  tell  ? 
Send  from  out  thy  mystic  portals 
With  the  holy  chrism  to-day, 
One  of  all  thy  high  immortals 
Who  shall  teach  me  what  to  say ! 

O  beloveds,  all  the  air 
Was  a  faint,  ethereal  mist 
Touched  with  rose  and  amethyst, — 


A   DREAM  OF  SONGS   UNSUNG.  23 

Glints  of  gold,  and  here  and  there 

Purple  splendors  that  were  gone, 

Like  the  glory  of  the  dawn, 

Ere  one  caught  them.     Soft  and  gray, 

Lit  by  many  a  pearly  ray, 

Were  the  low  skies  bending  dim 

To  the  far  horizon's  rim; 

And  the  landscape  stretched  away, 

Fair,  illusive,  like  a  dream 

Wherein  all  things  do  but  seem ! 

There  were  mountains,  but  they  rose 

O'er  the  subtile  vale's  repose, 

Light  as  clouds  that  far  and  high 

Soar  to  meet  the  untroubled  sky. 

There  were  trees  that  overhead 

Wide  their  sheltering  branches  spread, 

Yet  were  empty  as  the  shade 

By  the  quivering  vine-leaves  made. 

There  were  roses,  rich  with  bloom, 

Swinging  censers  of  perfume 

Sweet  as  fragrant  winds  of  May 

Blowing  through  spring's  secret  bowers ; 


A   DREAM  OF  SONGS   UNSUNG. 

Yet  so  phantom-like  were  they 

That  they  seemed  the  ghosts  of  flowers. 

Oh  the  music  sweet  and  strange 

In  that  land's  enchanted  range ! 

Like  the  pealing  of  the  bells 

When  the  brazen  flowers  are  swinging 

And  the  angelus  is  ringing, 

Soaring,  echoing,  far  and  near, 

Through  the  vales  and  up  the  dells, — 

Softly  on  the  enraptured  ear 

A  melodious  murmur  swells ! 

As  the  rhythm  of  the  river 

Day  and  night  goes  on  forever, 

So  that  pulsing  stream  of  song 

Rolls  its  silver  waves  along. 

Even  silence  is  but  sound, 

Deeper,  softer,  more  profound ! 

All  the  portals  were  thrown  wide; 
Stretching  far  on  either  side 
Ran  the  streets,  like  silver  mist, 
By  the  moon's  pale  splendor  kissed  ; 


A   DREAM  OF  SONGS   UNSUNG. 

And  adown  the  shadowy  way, 
Forth  from  many  a  still  retreat, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
Or  in  goodly  companies; 
Gliding  on  in  long  array, 
Light  and  fleet,  with  silent  feet, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
Phantoms  that  I  could  not  number, 
Countless  as  the  wraiths  of  slumber, 
Passed  before  my  wondering  eyes ! 

Then  I  grew  aware  of  one 
Standing  by  me  in  the  dun, 
Gray  half-twilight.     All  the  place 
Grew  softly  radiant;   but  his  face, 
Albeit  unveiled,  I  could  not  see 
For  the  awe  that  compassed  me. 
Swift  I  spoke,  by  longings  swayed 
Deeper  than  my  words  betrayed : 
"  Master,"  with  clasped  hands  I  prayed, 
"  Who  are  these  ?     Are  they  the  dead  ? ' 
"  Nay,  they  never  lived,"  he  said  ; 
4 


A   DREAM  OF  SONGS   UNSUNG. 

"  Whence    art    them  ?     How    earnest    thou 

here?" 

Low  I  answered,  then,  in  fear: 
"  Sir,  I  know  not ;  as  I  lay 
Dreaming  at  the  close  of  day, 
Wondrous  music,  thrilling  through  me, 
To  this  land  of  phantoms  drew  me, 
Though  I  knew  not  how  or  why, 
Even  as  instinct  draws  the  bird 
Where  Spring's  far-off  voice  is  heard. 
Tell  me,  Master,  where  am  I  ?  " 
"  Thou  art  in  the  border-land ; 
On  the  farthest,  utmost  strand 
Of  the  sea  that  lies  between 
All  that  is  and  is  not  seen. 
Thou  art  where  the  wraiths  of  song 
Come  and  go,  a  phantom  throng. 
'Tis  their  heart's  melodious  beat 
Fills  the  air  with  whispers  sweet ! 
These,  O  child,  are  songs  unsung  — 
Songs  unbreathed  by  human  tongue. 
These  are  they  that  all  in  vain 
Mightiest  masters  wooed  amain  — 


A  DREAM  OF  SONGS  UNSUNG.       27 

Children  of  their  heart  and  brain 
That  they  could  not  warm  to  life 
By  their  being's  utmost  strife. 
Every  bard  that  ever  sung 
Since  the  hoary  earth  was  young, 
Knew  the  song  he  could  not  sing 
Was  his  soul's  best  blossoming; 
Knew  the  thought  he  could  not  hold 
Shrined  his  spirit's  purest  gold. 
Look !  " 

Where  rose  the  city's  gate 
In  majestic,  sculptured  state, 
From  a  far-off  battle-plain, 
Through  the  javelins'  silver  rain 
Bearing  buckler,  lance,  and  shield, 
And  their  standard's  glittering  field, 
Eager,  yet  with  shout  nor  din, 
Came  a  great  host  trooping  in. 
Burned  their  eyes  with  martial  fire, 
And  the  glow  of  proud  desire, 
Such  as  gods  and  heroes  filled 
When  their  mighty  souls  were  thrilled 
By  old  Homer's  golden  lyre ! 


28       A  DREAM  OF  SONGS  UNSUNG. 

Under  dim  cathedral  arches 
Pacing  sad,  pacing  slow, 
As  to  beat  of  funeral  marches 
Or  to  music's  rhythmic  flow, — 
With  their  solemn  brows  uplifted, 
And  their  hands  upon  their  breasts, 
Where  the  deepest  shadows  drifted, 
One  by  one  pale  phantoms  pressed. 
Lost  in  dreams  of  heights  supernal, 
Mystic  dreams  of  Paradise, 
Or  of  woful  depths  infernal, 

Slow  they  passed  before  mine  eyes. 
Oh  the  vision's  pallid  splendor ! 
Oh  the  grandeur  of  their  mien  — 
Kin,  by  birthright  proud  and  tender, 
To  the  matchless  Florentine! 

In  stately  solitude, 
Whereon  might  none,  intrude  — 
Majestic,  grand  and  calm, 
And  bearing  each  the  palm ; 
Dwelling,  serene  and  fair, 
In  most  enchanted   air, 


A   DREAM  OF  SONGS   UNSUNG.  29 

Where  softest  music  crept 
O'er  harp-strings  deftly  swept, 
And  organ-thunders  rolled 
Like  storm-winds  through  the  wold, 
They  stood  in  strength  sublime 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  time, — 
They  who  had  been  a  part 
Of  Milton's  mighty  heart! 

And  where,  mysterious  ones, 

Are  Shakspeare's  princely  sons, 

Bearing  in  lavish  hands 

The  spoil  of  many  lands? 

From  castles  lifted  far 

Against  the  evening  star, 

Where  royal  banners  float 

O'er  rampart,  tower,  and  moat, 

And  the  white  moonlight  sleeps 

Upon  the  Donjon  keeps;  — 

From  fairy-haunted  dells 

Among  the  lonely  fells; 

From  banks  where  wild  thyme  grows 

And  the  blue  violet  blows; 


30  A   DREAM  OF  SONGS   UNSUNG. 

From  caverns  grim,  and  caves 
Lashed  by  the  deep  sea  waves; 
From  darkling  forest  shade, 
From  busy  haunts  of  trade, 
From  market,  court,  and  camp, 
Where  folly  rings  her  bells, 
Or  sorrow  tolls  her  knells, 
Or  where  in  cloister  cells 
The  scholar  trims  his  lamp, — 
Wearing  the  sword,  the  gown, 
The  motley  of  the  clown, 
The  beggar's  rags,  the  dole 
Of  the  remorseful  soul, 
The  wedding-robe,  the  ring, 
The  shroud's  white  blossoming, 
O  myriad-minded  man, 
Thus  thine  immortal  clan 
Passed  down  the  endless  ways 
Of  the  eternal  days ! 

Then  said  I  to  my  spirit:  — 

"These  are  they  who  wore  the  crown; 


A  DREAM  OF  SONGS   UNSUNG.  31 

Well  the  king's  sons  may  inherit 
All  his  glory  and  renown. 
Where  are  they, —  the  songs  unsung 
By  the  humbler  bards  whose  lyres 
Through  earth's  lowly  vales  have  rung, 
Like  the  notes  of  woodland  choirs  ? 
They  whose  silver-sandalled  feet 
Never  climbed  the  clouds  to  meet  ?  " 

Where  ?  —  the  air  grew  full  of  laughter 
Low  and  sweet;  and  following  after 
Came  the  softest  breath  of  singing 
As  if  lily  bells  were  ringing;  — 
And  from  all  the  happy  closes, 
Crowned     with     daisies,     crowned     with 

roses, 
Bearing  woodland  ferns  for  palm  boughs  in 

their  hands, 

From  the  dim  secluded  places, 
Through  the  wide  enchanted  spaces, 
With  their  song-illumined  faces 
Swept  the  shadowy  minstrel  bands! 


A   DREAM  OF  SONGS   UNSUNG. 

Songs  unsung,  the  high  and  lowly, 
Songs,  the  holy  and  unholy, 
In  that  purest  air  grown   wholly 
Clean  from  every  spot  and  stain! 
And   I   knew  as  endless  ages 
Still  were  turning  life's  full  pages, 
Each  should  find  his  own  again  — 
Find  the  song  he  could  not  sing, 
As  his  soul's  best  blossoming! 


QUESTIONING   A   ROSE. 

IT  was  fair,  it  was  sweet, 

And  it  blossomed  at  my  feet. 

"  O  thou  peerless  rose ! "  I  said, 
"  Art  thou  heir  to  roses  dead, — 
Roses  that  their  petals  shed 

In  the  winds  of  long  ago  ? 

Who  bequeathed  to  thee  the  glow 
Of  thy  perfect,  radiant  heart  ? 

What  proud  queen  of  fire  and  snow 

Lived  to  make  thee  what  thou  art  ? 

"  Who  gave  thee  thy  nameless  grace 

And  the  beauty  of  thy  face, 

Touched  thy  lips  with  fragrant  wine, 
Pledging  thee  in  cups  divine? 

5  33 


QUESTIONING  A   ROSE. 

On  some  long-forgotten  day, 

When  earth  kept  glad  holiday, 

One  bright  rose  was  born,  I  think, 
Dewy,  sweet,  and  soft  and  pink ;  — 

Born,  more  blest  than  others  are, 

To  be  thy  progenitor ! 

"  Oh  the  roses  that  have  died 
In  the  unremembered  Junes! 

Oh  the  roses  that  have  sighed 
Unto  long-forgotten  runes ! 

Dost  thou  know  their  secrets  dear  ? 

Have  they  whispered  in  thine  ear 
Mysteries  of  the  rain  and  dew, 
And  the  sunshine  that  they  knew  ? 

Have  they  told  thee  how  the  breeze 

Wooed  them,  and  the  amorous  bees  ? 

"  Silent,  art  thou  ?     Thy  repose 

Mocks  me,  yet  I  fain  would  know 

Art  thou  kin  to  one  rare  rose 
Of  a  summer  long  ago  ? 


QUESTIONING  A   ROSE.  35 

It  was  sweet,  it  was  fair; 

Some  one  twined  it  in  my  hair, 

When  my  young  cheek,  blushing  red, 
Shamed  the  roses,  some  one  said. 

Dust  and  ashes  though  it  be, 

Still  its  soul  lives  on  in  thee." 


THE    FALLOW    FIELD. 

THE  sun  comes  up  and  the  sun  goes  down ; 
The  night  mist  shroudeth  the  sleeping  town; 
But  if  it  be  dark  or  if  it  be  day, 
If  the  tempests  beat  or  the  breezes  play, 
Still  here  on  this  upland  slope  I  lie, 
Looking  up  to  the  changeful  sky. 


Naught  am  I  but  a  fallow  field; 
Never  a  crop  my  acres  yield. 
Over  the  wall  at  my  right  hand 
Stately  and  green  the  corn-blades  stand, 
And  I  hear  at  my  left  the  flying  feet 
Of  the  winds  that  rustle  the  bending  wheat. 
36 


THE  FALLOW  FIELD.  37 

Often  while  yet  the  morn  is  red 

I  list  for  our  master's  eager  tread. 

He  smiles  at  the  young  corn's  towering  height, 

He  knows  the  wheat  is  a  goodly  sight, 

But  he  glances  not  at  the  fallow  field 

Whose  idle  acres  no  wealth  may  yield. 


Sometimes  the  shout  of  the  harvesters 

The  sleeping  pulse  of  my  being  stirs, 

And  as  one  in  a  dream  I  seem  to  feel 

The  sweep  and  the  rush  of  the  swinging  steel, 

Or  I  catch  the  sound  of  the  gay  refrain 

As  they  heap  their  wains  with  the  golden  grain. 


Yet,  O  my  neighbors,  be  not  too  proud, 
Though  on  every  tongue  your  praise  is  loud. 
Our  mother  Nature  is  kind  to  me, 
And  I  am  beloved  by  bird  and  bee, 
And  never  a  child  that  passes  by 
But  turns  upon  me  a  grateful  eye. 


452643 


THE  FALLOW  FIELD. 

Over  my  head  the  skies  are  blue ; 

I  have  my  share  of  the  rain  and  dew; 

I  bask  like  you  in  the  summer  sun 

When  the  long  bright  days  pass,  one  by  one, 

And  calm  as  yours  is  my  sweet  repose 

Wrapped  in  the  warmth  of  the  winter  snows. 


For  little  our  loving  mother  cares 

Which  the  corn  or  the  daisy  bears, 

Which  is  rich  with  the  ripening  wheat, 

Which  with  the  violet's  breath  is  sweet, 

Which  is  red  with  the  clover  bloom, 

Or  which  for  the  wild  sweet-fern  makes  room. 


Useless  under  the  summer  sky 

Year  after  year  men  say  I  lie. 

Little  they  know  what  strength  of  mine 

I  give  to  the  trailing  blackberry  vine; 

Little  they  know  how  the  wild  grape  grows, 

Or  how  my  life-blood  flushes  the  rose. 


THE  FALLOW  FIELD,  39 

Little  they  think  of  the  cups  I  fill 

For  the  mosses  creeping  under  the  hill ; 

Little  they  think  of  the  feast  I  spread 

For  the  wild  wee  creatures  that  must  be  fed : 

Squirrel  and  butterfly,  bird  and  bee, 

And  the  creeping  things  that  no  eye  may  see. 


Lord  of  the  harvest,  thou  dost  know 
How  the  summers  and  winters  go. 
Never  a  ship  sails  east  or  west 
Laden  with  treasures  at  my  behest, 
Yet  my  being  thrills  to  the  voice  of  God 
When  I  give  my  gold  to  the  golden-rod. 


OUT   AND    IN. 

A  SHIP  went  sailing  out  to  sea, 

A  gallant  ship  and  gay, 
When  skies  were  bright  as  skies  could  be, 
One  sunny  morn  in  May. 
The  light  winds  blew, 
The  white  sails  flew, 
The  pennants  floated  far; 
No  stain  I  saw, 
Nor  any  flaw, 

From  deck  to  shining  spar! 
And  from  the  prow,  with  eager  eyes, 
Hope  gazed  afar  —  to  Paradise. 

A  ship  came  laboring  in  from  sea, 

One  wild  December  night ; 
Ah !    never  ship  was  borne  to  lee 

In  sadder,  sorrier  plight ! 


OUT  AND  IN. 

Rent  were  her  sails 
By  furious  gales, 
No  pennants  floated  far; 
Twisted  and  torn 
And  all  forlorn 

Were  shuddering  mast  and  spar ! 
But  from  the  prow  Faith's  steady  eyes 
Caught  the  near  light  of  Paradise ! 


HER    FLOWERS. 

"  NAY,  nay,"  she  whispered  low, 
"  I  will  not  have  these  buds  of  folded  snow, 

Nor  yet  the  pallid  bloom 
Of  the  chill  tuberose,  heavy  with  perfume, 

Nor  lilies  waxen  white, 
To  go  with  her  into  the  grave's  dark  night. 


"  But  now  that  she  is  dead 
Bring  ye  the  royal  roses  blushing  red; 

Roses  that  on  her  breast 
All  summer  long,  by  these  pale  hands  caressed, 

Have  lain  in  happy  calm, 
Breathing  their  lives  away  in  bloom  and  balm ! 


HER  FLOWERS,  43 

Roses  for  all  the  joy 
Of  perfect  hours  when  life  had  no  alloy; 

When  hope  was  glad  and  gay, 
And  young  Love  sang  his  blissful  roundelay; 

And  to  her  eager  eyes 
Each  new  day  oped  the  gates  of  Paradise. 


But,  for  that  she  hath  wept, 
And  over  buried  hopes  long  vigil  kept, 

Bring  mystic  passion-flowers, 
To  tell  the  tale  of  sacrificial  hours 

When,  lifting  up  her  cross, 
She  bore  it  bravely  on  through  pain  and  loss ! 


Then  at  her  blessed  feet, 
That  never  more  shall  haste  on  errands  sweet, 

Lay  fragrant  mignonette 
And  fair  sweet-peas  in  dainty  garlands  set. 

Dear  humble  flowers,  that  make 
Each  passer-by  the  gladder  for  their  sake ! 


44  HER  FLOWERS. 

For  she  who  lieth  here 
Trod  not  alone  the  high  paths  shining  clear, 

With  light  of  star  and  sun 
Falling  undimmed  her  lofty  place  upon ; 

But  stooped  to  lowliest  ways, 
Filling  with  fragrance  all  the  passing  days ! 


THREE    LADDIES. 

O  SAILORS  sailing  north, 

Where  the  wild  white  surges  roar, 
And  fierce  winds  and  strong  winds 

Blow  down  from  Labrador — 
Have  you  seen  my  three  brave  laddies, 
My  merry,  red-cheeked  laddies, 
Three  bold,  adventurous  laddies, 

On  some  tempestuous  shore? 

O  sailors  sailing  south, 

Where  the  seas  are  calm  and  blue, 
And  light  clouds,  and  soft  clouds, 

Are  floating  over  you, 
Say,  have  you  seen  my  laddies, 
My  three  bright  winsome  laddies, 
My  brown-haired,  smiling  laddies, 

With  hearts  so  leal  and  true  ? 


46  THREE  LADDIES. 

O  sailors  sailing  east, 

Ask  the  sea-gulls  sweeping  by; 
O  sailors  sailing  west, 

Ask  the  eagles  soaring  high, 
If  they  have  seen  my  laddies, 
My  careless,  heedless  laddies, 
Three  debonair  young  laddies, 

Beneath  the  wide,  wide  sky? 

O  sailors,  if  you  find  them, 

Pray  send  them  back  to  me; 
For  them  the  winds  go  sighing 
Through  every  lonely  tree  — 
For  these  three  wandering  laddies, 
My  tender,  bright-eyed  laddies, 
The  laughter-loving  laddies, 
Whom  they  no  longer  see. 

There  are  three  men  who  love  me, 
Three  men  with  bearded  lips; 

But  oh !  ye  gallant  sailors 
.Who  sail  the  sea  in  ships — 


THREE  LADDIES,  47 

In  elf-land,  or  in  cloud-land, 

Or  on  the  dreamland  shore, 
Can  you  find  the  little  laddies 

Whom  I  can  find  no  more? 
Three  quiet,  thoughtful  laddies, 
Three  merry,  winsome  laddies, 
Three  rollicking,  frolicking  laddies, 

On  any  far-off  shore  ? 


SUMMER,    1882. 


O  SUMMER,  them  fair  laggard,  where  art  thou  ? 
In  what  far  sunlit  land  of  balm  and  bloom, 
What  slumbrous  bowers  of  beauty  and  perfume, 

Are  roses  crowning  thine  imperial  brow  ? 

Where  art  thou,  Summer  ?    We  should  see  thy  feet 
Even  now  upon  the  mountains.    All  the  hills 
Rise  up  to  greet  thee.    Nature's  great  heart  thrills, 

Faint  with  expectant  joy.     Where  art  thou,  sweet  ? 

And  Summer  answered  :  "  Lo !    I  wait !    I  wait ! 

To  the  far  North  I  bend  my  listening  ear; 

By  day,  by  night,  my  soul  keeps  watch  to  hear 
One  high,  clear  strain  that  rises  soon  nor  late ! 

48 


SUMMER,  1882.  49 

"Why  should  I  haste  where  light  and  song  have  fled? 

The  '  Woodnotes '  wake  no  more  the  Master's  lyre ; 

The  '  haughty  day '  fills  no  '  blue  urn  with  fire ' 
When  its  great  lover  lieth  cold  and  dead ! " 


THORNLESS    ROSES. 

"  No  ROSE  may  bloom  without  a  thorn  ?  " 

Come  down  the  garden  paths  and  see 
How  brightly  in  the  scented  air 

They  bloom  for  you  and  me! 

See  how,  like  rosy  clouds,  they  lie 

Against  the  perfect,  stainless  blue ! 
See  how  they  toss  their  airy  heads, 

And  smile  for  me,  for  you  ! 

No  scanty  largess,  meanly  doled  — 

No  pallid  blooms,  by  two,  by  three, 
But  a  whole  crowd  of  pink-white  wings 
Fluttering  for  you  and  me. 


THORNLESS  ROSES. 

So  fair  they  are  I  cannot  choose; 

I  pluck  the  rich  spoils  here  and  there; 
I  heap  them  on  your  waiting  arms ; 

I  twine  them  in  your  hair. 

There  is  no  thorn  among  them  all  — 

No  sharp  sting  in  the  heart  of  bliss  — 
No  bitter  in  the  honeyed  cup  — 

No  burning  in  the  kiss. 

Nay,  quote  the  proverb  if  you  must, 

And  mock  the  truth  you  will  not  see ; 
Nathless,  Love's  thornless  roses  blow 

Somewhere  for  you  and  me. 


TREASURE-SHIPS. 

O  BEAUTIFUL,  stately  ships, 

Ye  come  from  over  the  seas, 
With  every  sail  full  spread 

To  the  glad,  rejoicing  breeze! 
Ye  come  from  the  dusky  East, 

Ye  come  from  the  golden  West, 
As  birds  that  out  of  the  far  blue  sky 

Fly  each  to  its  sheltered  nest. 

All  spoils  of  the  earth  ye  bring; 

From  the  isles  of  far  Cathay, 
From  the  fabled  shores  of  the  Orient, 

And  realms  more  rich  than  they. 
The  prisoned  light  of  a  thousand  gems, 

The  gleam  of  the  virgin  gold, 
Lustre  of  silver,  and  sheen  of  pearl, 

Shut  up  in  the  narrow  hold. 


TREASURE-SHIPS. 

Shawls  from  the  looms  of  Ispahan  ; 

Ivory  white  as  milk; 
Shimmer  of  satin  and  rare  brocade, 

And  fold  upon  fold  of  silk ; 
Gauzes  that  India's  maidens  wear; 

Spices,  and  rare  perfumes; 
Fruits  that  hold  in  their  honeyed  cups 

The  wealth  of  the  summer  blooms. 

The  blood  of  a  thousand  vines ; 

The  cotton's  drifted  snow ; 
The  fragrant  heart  of  the  precious  woods 

That  deep  in  the  tropics  grow; 
The  strength  of  the  giant  hills; 

The  might  of  the  iron  ore  ; 
The  golden  corn,  and  the  yellow  wheat, 

From  earth's  broad  threshing-floor. 

Yet,  O  ye  beautiful  ships! 

There  are  ships  that  come  not  back, 
With  flying  pennant  and  swelling  sail, 

Over  yon  shining  track! 


54  TREASURE-SHIPS. 

Who  can  reckon  their  precious  stores, 
Or  measure  the  might  have  been  ? 

Who  can  tell  what  they  held  for  us  — 
The  ships  that  will  ne'er  come  in  ? 


CHOOSING. 

MEADOW-SWEET  or  lily  fair  — 

Which  shall  it  be? 
Clematis  or  brier-rose, 

Blooming  for  me? 
Spicy  pink,  or  violet 
With  the  dews  of  morning  wet, 
Sweet  peas  or  mignonette  — 

Which  shall  it  be? 

Flowers  in  the  garden-beds, 

Flowers  everywhere; 
Blue-bells  and  yellow-bells 

Swinging  in  the  air; 
Purple  pansies,  golden  pied; 
Pink- white  daisies,  starry-eyed; 
Gay  nasturtiums,  deeply  dyed, 

Climbing  everywhere! 


56  CHOOSING. 


Oh,  the  roses  darkly  red — 

See,  how  they  burn! 
Glows  with  all  the  summer  heat 

Each  crimson  urn. 
Bridal  roses  pure  as  snow, 
Yellow  roses  all  a-blow, 
Sweet  blush  roses  drooping  low, 

Wheresoe'er  I  turn ! 

Life  is  so  full,  so  sweet  — 

How  can   I   choose  ? 
If  I   gather  this  rose, 

That  I   must  lose? 
All  are  not  for  me  to  wear; 
I  can  only  have  my  share; 
Thorns  are  hiding  here  and  there; 

How  can  I   choose  ? 


NOT   MINE. 

IT  is   not  mine  to  run 

With  eager  feet 
Along  life's  crowded  ways, 

My  Lord  to  meet. 

It  is  not  mine  to  pour 
The  oil   and  wine, 

Or  bring  the  purple  robe 
And  linen  fine. 

It  is  not  mine  to  break 

At  his  dear  feet 
The  alabaster-box 

Of  ointment  sweet. 

It  is  not  mine  to  bear 
His  heavy  cross, 


58  NOT  MINE. 

Or  suffer,  for  his  sake, 
All  pain  and  loss. 

It  is  not  mine  to  walk 
Through  valleys  dim, 

Or  climb  far  mountain-heights 
Alone  with  him. 

He  hath  no  need  of  me 

In  grand  affairs, 
Where  fields  are  lost,  or  crowns 

Won  unawares. 

Yet,   Master,  if  I  may 
Make  one  pale  flower 

Bloom  brighter,  for  thy  sake, 
Through  one  short  hour; 

If  I,  in  harvest  fields 
Where  strong  ones  reap, 

May  bind  one  golden  sheaf 
For  Love  to  keep; 


NOT  MINE.  59 

May  speak  one  quiet  word 

When  all  is  still, 
Helping  some  fainting  heart 

To  bear  thy   will; 

Or  sing  one  high,  clear  song, 

On  which  may  soar 
Some  glad  soul  heavenward, 

I  ask  no  more ! 


THE    CHAMBER   OF   SILENCE. 

ONE  autumn  day  we  three, 
Who  long  had  borne  each  other  company, — 

Grief,  and  my  Heart,  and  I, — 
Walked  out  beneath  a  dull  and  leaden  sky. 

The  fields  were  bare  and  brown : 
From  the  still  trees  the  dead  leaves  fluttered  down ; 

There  were  no  birds  to  sing, 
Or  cleave  the  air  on  swift,  rejoicing  wing. 

We  sought  the  barren  sand 
Beside  the  moaning  sea,  and,  hand  in  hand, 

Paced  its  slow  length,  and  talked 
Of  our  supremest  sorrows  as  we  walked. 

Slow  shaking  each  bowed  head, 
"  There  is  no  anguish  like  to  ours,"  we  said ; 


THE   CHAMBER   OF  SILENCE.  61 

"  The  glancing  eyes  of  morn 
Fall  on  no  souls  more  utterly  forlorn." 

But  suddenly,  across 
A  narrow  fiord  wherein  wild  billows  toss, 

We  saw  before  our  eyes, 
High  hung  above  the  tide,  a  temple  rise  — 

A  temple  wondrous  fair, 
Lifting  its  shining  turrets  in  the  air, 

All  touched  with  golden  gleams, 
Like  the  bright  miracles  we  see  in  dreams. 

Grief  turned  and  looked  at  me. 
"  We  must  go  thither,  O  my  friends,"  said  she ; 

Then,  saying  nothing  more, 
With  rapid,  gliding  step  passed  on  before. 

And  we  —  my  Heart  and  I — 
Where  Grief  went,  we  went,  following  silently, 

Till  in  sweet  solitude 
Beneath  the  temple's  vaulted  roof  we  stood. 


62  THE   CHAMBER   OF  SILENCE. 

'Twas  like  a  hollow  pearl  — 
A  vast  white  sacred  chamber,  where  the  whirl 

Of  passion  stirred  not,  where 
A  luminous  splendor  trembled  in  the  air. 

"  O  friends,  I  know  this  place," 
Said  Grief  at  last,  "  this  lofty,  silent  space, 

Where,  either  soon  or  late, 
I  and  my  kindred  all  shall  lie  in  state." 

"  But  do  Griefs  die  ?  "  I  cried. 
"  Some  die  —  not  all,"  full  calmly  she  replied. 

"Yet  all  at  last  will  lie 
In  this  fair  chamber,  slumbering  quietly. 

"  Chamber  of  Silence,  this ; 
Who  brings  his  Grief  here  doth  not  go  amiss. 

Mine  hour  hath  come.     We  three 
Will  walk,  O  friends,  no  more  in  company." 

Then  was  I  dumb.     My  Heart 
And  I  —  how  could  we  with  our  dear  Grief  part, 


THE   CHAMBER   OF  SILENCE.  63 

Who  for  so  many  a  day 
Had  walked  beside  us  in  our  lonely  way  ? 

But  she,  with  matchless  grace, 
And  a  sweet  smile  upon  her  tear-wet  face, 

Said,  "  Leave  me  here  to  sleep, 
Where  every  Grief  forgets  at  last  to  weep." 

What  could  we  do  but  go  ? 
We  turned  with  slow,  reluctant  feet,  but  lo ! 

The  pearly  door  had  closed, 
Shutting  us  in  where  all  the  Griefs  reposed. 

"  Nay,  go  not  back,"  she  said; 
"  Retrace  no  steps.     Go  farther  on  instead." 

Then,  on  the  other  side, 
On  noiseless  hinge  another  door  swung  wide, 

Through  which  we  onward  passed 
Into  a  chamber  lowlier  than  the  last, 

But,  oh !  so  sweet  and  calm 
That  the  hushed  air  was  like  a  holy  psalm. 


64  THE   CHAMBER   OF  SILENCE. 

"  Chamber  of  Peace  "  was  writ 
Where  the  low  vaulted  roof  arched  over  it. 

Then  knew  we  Grief  must  cease 
When  sacred  Silence  leadeth  unto  Peace. 


THREE   ROSES. 

"  OH,  shall  it  be  a  red  rose,  a  red  rose,  a  red  rose, 
A  deep-tinted  red  rose  ?  "  said  she. 
"  In  the  sunny  garden  closes, 
How  they  burn,  the  dark-red  roses, 

How  they  lift  up  their  glowing  cups  to  me  ! " 

"  Oh,  shall  it  be  a  blush  rose,  a  blush  rose,  a  blush  rose, 
A  dewy,  dainty  blush  rose  ?  "  said  she. 
"At  its  heart  a  flush  so  tender, 
With  what  veiled  and  softened  splendor 

Droopeth  now  its  languid  head  towards  me ! " 

"  Oh,  shall  it  be  a  white  rose,  a  white  rose,  a  white  rose, 
A  fair  and  fragrant  white  rose  ?  "  said  she. 
"  With  its  pale  cheek  tinted  faintly, 
'Tis  a  vestal,  pure  and  saintly, 
Yet  its  silver  lamp  is  shining  now  for  me ! " 
9 


FOUR   LETTERS. 
(INSCRIBED  TO  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES.) 

[In  an  old  almanac  of  the  year  1809,  against  the  data  August  29, 
there  is  this  record,  "  Son  b."  The  sand  that  was  thrown  upon  the 
fresh  ink  seventy  years  ago  can  still  be  seen  upon  the  page.] 

FOUR  letters  on  a  yellow  page 

Writ  when  the  century  was  young ; 
A  few  small  grains  of  shining  sand 
Across  it  lightly  flung! 

A  child  was  born  —  child  nameless  yet ; 

A  son  to  love  till  life  was  o'er; 
But  did  no  strange,  sweet  prescience  stir, 
Teaching  of  something  more  ? 

Thy  son!  —  O  father,  hadst  thou  known 
What  now  the  wide  world  knows  of  him, 


FOUR   LETTERS.  67 

How  had  thy  pulses  thrilled  with  joy, 
How  had  thine  eye  grown  dim! 

Couldst  thou,  through  all  the  swift,  bright  years, 

Have  looked,  with  glad,  far-reaching  gaze, 
And  seen  him  as  he  stands  to-day, 

Crowned  with  unfading  bays  — 

While  Love's  red  roses  at  his  feet 

Pour  all  their  wealth  of  rare  perfume, 
And  Truth's  white  lilies,  pure  as  snow, 
His  lofty  way  illume  — 

How  had  thy  heart's  strong  throbbings  shook 

The  eager  pen,  the  firm  right  hand, 
That  threw  upon  this  record  quaint 

These  grains  of  glittering  sand ! 

O  irony  of  Time  and  Fate ! 

That  saves  and  loses,  makes  and  mars, 
Keeps  the  small  dust  upon  the  scales, 
And  blotteth  out  the  stars! 


68  FOUR  LETTERS. 

Kingdoms  and  thrones  have  passed  away; 

Conquerors  have  fallen,  empires  died, 
And  countless  sons  of  men  gone  down 
Beneath  War's  crimson  tide. 

The  whole  wide  earth  has  changed  its  face  ; 

Nations  clasp  hands  across  the  seas ; 
They  speak,  and  winds  and  waves  repeat 
The  mighty  symphonies. 

Mountains  have  bowed  their  haughty  crests, 
And  opened  wide  their  ponderous  doors ; 
The  sea  has  gathered  in  its  dead, 
Love-wept  on  alien  shores. 

Proud  cities,  wrapped  in  fire  and  flame, 

Have  challenged  all  the  slumbering  land ; 
Yet  neither  Time  nor  Change  has  touched 
These  few  bright  grains  of  sand ! 


VALDEMAR. 

WITHIN  a  city  quaint  and  old, 
When  reigned  King  Alcinor  the  Bold, 
There  dwelt  a  sculptor  whose  renown 
With  pride  and  wonder  filled  the  town. 
And  yet  he  had  not  reached  his  prime; 
The  first  warm  glow  of  summer-time 
Had  but  just  touched  his  radiant  face, 
And  moulded  to  a  statelier  grace 
The  stalwart  form  that  trod  the  earth 
As  it  had  been  of  princely  birth. 
So  fair,  so  strong,  so  brave  was  he, 
With  such  a  sense  of  mastery, 
That  Alcinor  upon   his  throne 
No  kinglier  gifts  from  life  could  own 
Than  those  it  brought  from  near  and  far 
To  the  young  sculptor,  Valdemar! 
69 


7o  VALDEMAR. 

Mayhap  he  was  not  rich  —  for  Fame, 
To  lend  its  magic  to  his  name, 
Had  outrun  Fortune's  swiftest  pace 
And  conquered  in  the  friendly  race. 
But  a  fair  home  was  his,  where  bees 
Hummed  in  the  laden  mulberry  trees; 
Where  cyclamens,  with  rosy  flush, 
Brightened  the  lingering  twilight  hush, 
And  the  gladiolus'  fiery  plume 
Mocked  the  red  rose's  brilliant  bloom; 
Where  violet  and  wind-flower  hid 
The  acacia's  golden  gloom  amid; 
Where  starry  jasmines  climbed,  and  where, 
Serenely  calm,  divinely  fair, 
Like  a  white  lily,  straight  and  tall, 
The  loveliest  flower  among  them  all, 
His  sweet  young  wife,  Hermione, 
Sang  to  the  child  upon  her  knee ! 

Here  beauteous  visions  haunted  him, 
Peopling  the  shadows  soft  and  dim; 
Here  the  old  gods  around  him  cast 
The  glamour  of  their  splendors  past 


VALDEMAR. 

Jove  thundered  from  the  awful  sky; 
Proud  Juno  trod  the  earth  once  more ; 
Pale  Isis,  veiled  in  mystery, 
Her  smile  of  mystic  meaning  wore; 
Apollo  joyed  in  youth  divine, 
And  Bacchus  wreathed  the  fragrant  vine; 
Here  chaste  Diana,  crescent-crowned, 
With  virgin  footsteps  spurned  the  ground; 
Here  rose  fair  Venus  from  the  sea, 
And  that  sad  ghost,  Persephone, 
Wandered,  a  very  shade  of  shades, 
Amid  the  moonlit  myrtle  glades. 
Nor  they  alone.     The  Heavenly  Child, 
The  Holy  Mother,  meek  and  mild, 
Angels  on  glad  wing  soaring  free, 
Pale,  praying  saints  on  bended  knee, 
Martyrs  with  palms,  and  heroes  brave, 
Who  for  their  guerdon  won  a  grave, 
Earth's  laughing  children,  rosy  sweet, 
And  the  soul's  phantoms,  fair  and  fleet  — 
All  these  were  with  him  night  and  day, 
Charming  the  happy  hours  alway! 
Oh,  who  so  rich  as  Valdemar? 


72  VALDEMAR. 

What  ill  his  joyous  life  can  mar? 
With  home  and  glorious  visions  blest, 
Glad  in  the  work  he  loveth  best! 

But  Love's  clear  eyes  are  quick  to  see 
And  one  fair  spring,  Hermione, 
Sitting  beneath  her  mulberry  tree 
With  her  young  children  at  her  knee, 
Saw  Valdemar,  from  day  to  day, 
As  one  whose  thoughts  were  far  away, 
With  folded  arms  and  drooping  head 
Pace  the  green  aisles  with  silent  tread; 
Saw  him  stand  moodily  apart 
With  idle  hands  and  brooding  heart, 
Or  gaze  at  his  still  forms  of  clay, 
Himself  as  motionless  as  they  ! 
"  O  Valdemar ! "  she  cried,  "  you  bear 
Some  burden  that  I  do  not  share! 
I  am  your  wife,  your  own  true  wife; 
Shut  me  not  out  from  heart  and  life! 
Why  brood  you  thus  in  silent  pain  ?  " 
As  shifts  the  changing  weather-vane, 


VALDEMAR.  73 

So  came  the  old  smile  to  his  face, 
Saluting  her  with  courtly  grace. 
"  Nay,  nay,  Hermione,  not  so ! 
No  secret,  bitter  grief  I  know ; 
But,  haunting  all  my  dreams  by  night 
And  thoughts  by  day,  one  vision  bright, 
One  nameless  wonder,  near  me  stands, 
Claiming  its  birthright  at  my  hands. 
It  hath  your  eyes,  Hermione, 
Your  tender  lips  that  smile  for  me; 
It  hath  your  perfect,  stately  grace, 
The  matchless  beauty  of  your  face. 
But  it  hath  more  !  —  for  never  yet 
On  brow  of  earthly  mould  was  set 
Such  splendor  and  such  light  as  streams 
From  this  rare  phantom  of  my  dreams ! " 

Lightly  she  turned,  and  led  him  through 
Under  the  jasmines  wet  with  dew, 
Into  a  wide,  cool  room,  shut  in 
From  the  great  city's  whirl  and  din  — 
Then,  smiling,  touched  a  heap  of  clay. 


74  VALDEMAR. 

"  Dear  idler,  do  thy  work,  I  pray  ! 
Thy  radiant  phantom  lieth  hid 
The  mould  of  centuries  amid, 
Waiting  till  thou  shalt  bid  it  rise 
And  live  beneath  the  wondering  skies !  " 

Then  rose  a  hot  flush  to  his  cheek; 

His  stammering  lips  were  slow  to  speak. 

"  Hermione,"  he  said  at  length, 

As  one  who  gathers  up  his  strength, 

"  Hermione,  my  wife,  I  go 

Far  from  thee  on  a  journey  slow 

And  long  and  perilous;    for  I  know 

Somewhere  upon  the  earth  there  is 

A  finer,  purer  clay  than  this, 

From  which  I'll  mould  a  shape  more  fair 

Than  ever  breathed  in  earthly  air! 

I  go  to  seek  it !  " 

"  Ah  ! "  she  said, 

With  smiling  lips,  but  tearful  eyes, 
Half  lifted  in  a  grieved  surprise, 


VALDEMAR.  75 

"  How  shall  I  then  be  comforted  ? 

Not  always  do  we  find  afar 

The  good  we  seek,  my  Valdemar! 

This  common,  wayside  clay  thy  hand 

Hath  been  most  potent  to  command. 

Yet  I  — I  will  not  bid  thee  stay. 

Go,  if  thou  must,  and  find  thy  clay ! " 

Then  his  long  journeyings  began, 
And  still  his  hope  his  steps  outran. 
O'er  desert  sands  he  came  and  went; 
He  crossed  a  mighty  continent; 
Plunged  into  forests  dark  and  lone; 
In  jungles  heard  the  panther's  moan; 
Climbed  the  far  mountains'  lofty  heights; 
Watched  alien  stars  through  weary  nights; 
While  more  than  once,  on  trackless  seas, 
His  white  sails  caught  the  eddying  breeze. 
Yet  all  his  labor  was  for  nought, 
And  never  found  he  what  he  sought, 
Or  far  or  near.     The  finer  clay 
But  mocked  his  eager  search  alway. 


VALDEMAR. 

Ofttimes  he  came,  with  weary  feet, 
Back  to  the  home  so  still  and  sweet 
Where  his  fair  wife,  Hermione, 
Dwelt  with  her  children  at  her  knee; 
But  never  once  his  eager  hand 
Thrilled  the  mute  clay  with  high  command. 
One  day  she  spoke :    "  O  Valdemar, 
Cease  from  your  wanderings  wide  and  far! 
Life  is  not  long.     Why  waste  it,  then, 
Chasing  false  fires  through  marsh  and  fen  ? 
Mould  your  fair  statue  while  you  may ; 
High  purpose  sanctifies  the  clay." 

He  answered  her,   "  My  dream  must  wait 
Fortune  will  aid  me,  soon  or  late ! 
Perhaps  the  clay  I  may  not  find  — 
But  a  strange  tale  is  in  the  wind 
Of  an  old  man  whose  life  has  been 
Shut  up  wild  solitudes  within 
On  Alpine  mountains.     He  has  found 
What  I  have  sought  the  world  around. 
A  learned,  godly  man,  he  knows 


VALDEMAR.  77 

How  the  full  tide  of  being  flows; 
And  he,  in  some  mysterious  way, 
Makes,  if  he  cannot  find,  the  clay. 
He  will  his  secret  share  with  me  — 
I  go  to  him,  Hermione  ! " 

"  But,  Valdemar,"  she  cried,  "  time  flies, 

And  while  you  dream,  the  vision  dies ! 

And  look !     Our  children  suffer  lack ; 

There  is  no  coat  for  Claudio's  back; 

Theresa's  little  feet,  unshod, 

Are  torn  by  shards  on  which  they  trod ; 

And  Marcius  cried  but  yesterday 

When  the  lads  mocked  him  at  their  play. 

The  very  house  is  crumbling  down; 

The  broken  hearth-stone  needs  repair ; 

The  roof  is  open  to  the  air  — 

It  wakes  the  laughter  of  the  town ! 

O  \*aldemar !   if  you  must  go 

Up  to  those  trackless  fields  of  snow, 

Mould  first  from  yonder  common  clay 

Something  to  keep  the  wolf  away  — 


VALDEMAR. 

A  Virgin  for  some  humble  shrine, 

A  soldier  clad  in  armor  fine, 

Or  even  such  toys  as  Andrefels 

To  laughing,  wondering  children  sells." 

"  Now  murmur  not,  Hermione, 

But  be  thou  patient,"  answered  he. 

"  Why  mind  the  laughter  of  the  town  ? 

It  cannot  shake  my  fair  renown ! 

A  touch  of  hardship,  now  and  then, 

Will  never  harm  our  little  men ; 

And  as  for  this  old,  crumbling  roof, 

Let  rude  winds  put  it  to  the  proof, 

And  fierce  heats  gnaw  the  hearth-stone!    I 

Surely  the  Land  of  Promise  spy. 

Where  the  fair  vision  of  my  dreams, 

Clothed  in  transcendent  beauty,  gleams! 

In  its  white  hand  it  holdeth  up 

For  us,  my  love,  a  brimming  cup* 

Where  wealth  and  fame  and  joy  divine 

Mingle  in  life's  most  sparkling  wine. 

Bid  me  God-speed,  Hermione, 

And  kiss  me,  ere  I  go  from  thee!" 


VALDEMAR.  79 

"  But  the  rent  hearth-stone,  Valdemar ! 
Mend  that  before  you  haste  afar, 
That  I  may  bake  our  children's  bread 
Till  we  in  your  high  path  shall  tread ! " 

"  Nay,  nay,  I  shall  return  so  soon ! 
Now,  farewell !    'Tis  the  hour  of  neon, 
And  ere  the  sun  sets  I  must  be 
Far  on  my  way  from  home  and  thee ! " 

So  on  he  sped,  from  day  to  day, — 
Past  wheat-fields  yellowing  in  the  sun, 
Where  scarlet-coated  poppies  run, 
Gay  soldiers  ready  for  the  fray, — 
Past  vineyards  purpling  on  the  hills, 
Past  sleeping  lakes  and  dancing  rills, 
And  homes  like  dovecotes,  nestling  high 
Midway  between  the  earth  and  sky ! 
Then  on  he  passed  through  valleys  dim 
Crowded  with  shadows  gaunt  and  grim, 
Up  towering  heights  whence  glaciers  launch 
Their  swift-winged  ships  for  seaward  flight, 
Or  where,  dread  messenger  of  fright, 


8o  VALDEMAR. 

Sweeps  down  the  awful  avalanche! 

And  still  upon  the  mountain-side 

To  every  man  he  met  he  cried, 

"  Where  shall  I  find,  oh !  tell  me  where, 

The  hermit  of  this  upper  air, 

Who  Nature's  inmost  secret  knows  ?  " 

And,  pointing  to  the  eternal  snows, 

Each  man  replied,  with  wagging  head, 

"  ^P  yonder,  somewhere,  it  is  said." 

At  length  one  day,  as  sank  the  sun, 
He  reached  a  low  hut,  dark  and  dun, 
And,  entering  unbidden,  found 
An  old  man  stretched  upon  the  ground; 
A  white-haired,  venerable  man, 
Whose  eyes  had  hardly  light  to  scan 
The  face  that,  blanched  with  awful  fear, 
Bent  down,  his  failing  breath  to  hear. 
"  Pax  vobiscum"  he  murmured  low, 
"Shrive  me,  O  brother,  ere  I  go!" 

"  No  priest  am  I,"  cried  Valdemar. 
"  Alas  !   alas  !    I  came  from  far 


VALDEMAR. 

To  learn  thy  secret  of  the  clay  — 
Speak  to  me,  sire,  while  yet  you  may !  " 
But  while  he  wet  the  parched  lips, 
The  dull  eyes  closed  in  death's  eclipse; 
And  the  old  seer  in  silence  lay, 
Himself  a  thing  of  pallid  clay, 
With  all  his  secrets  closely  hid 
As  Ramses'  in  the  Pyramid. 

Long  time  within  that  lonely  place 
Valdemar  lived,  but  found  no  trace 
In  learned  book  or  parchment  scroll 
(The  ink  scarce  dry  upon  the  roll) 
Of  aught  the  stars  had  taught  to  him. 
Within  the  wide  horizon's  rim, 
Nor  earth,  nor  sky,  nor  winds  at  play, 
-Knew  the  lost  secret  of  the  clay. 

Then  sought  he,  after  journeyings  hard, 
The  holy  monks  of  St.  Bernard. 
But  they  —  ah,  yes! — they  knew  him  well, 
A  man  not  ruled  by  book  and  bell. 
Godly,  perhaps, —  but  much  inclined 


82  VALDEMAR. 

Some  newer  road  to  heaven  to  find. 
And  was  he  dead  ?  —  God  rest  his  sou!, 
After  this  life  of  toil  and  dole  ! 

And  that  was  all!     O  Valdemar ! 
Fly  to  thy  desolate  home  afar, 
Where  wasted,  worn,  Hermione, 
With  her  pale  children  at  her  knee, 
Beside  the  broken  hearth-stone  weeps ! 

He  finds  her,  smiling  as  she  sleeps ;  — 
For  night  more  tender  is  than  day, 
And  softly  wipes  our  tears  away. 
"  Oh,  wake,  Hermione  !  "  he  cries, 
As  one  whose  spirit  inly  dies; 
"  Hear  me  confess  that  I  have  been 
False  to  thee  in  my  pride  and  sin  ! 
God  give  me  grace  from  this  blest  day 
To  do  his  work  in  common  clay  ! " 

Next  morn,  in  humble,  sweet  content, 
Into  his  studio  he  went, 


VALDEMAR.  83 

Eager  to  test  his  willing  hand, 

And  rule  the  clay  with  wise  command. 

But  no  fair  wonder  first  he  wrought, 

No  marvel  of  creative  thought, 

Not  even  a  Virgin  for  a  shrine, 

Or  soldier  clad  in  armor  fine;  — 

Only  such  toys  as  Andrefels 

To  laughing,  wondering  children  sells ! 

One  day  he  knelt  him  gravely  down 
Beside  the  hearth-stone,  rent  and  brown. 
"  And  now,  my  patient  wife,"  said  he, 
"  What  can  be  done  with  this,  we'll  see." 
With  straining  arm  and  crimsoned  face 
He  pried  the  mortar  from  its  place, 
Lifted  the  heavy  stone  aside, 
And  left  a  cavern  yawning  wide. 
Oh,  wondrous  tale !     At  set  of  sun 
The  guerdon  of  his  search  was  won ; 
And  where  his  broken  hearth-stone  lay 
He  found  at  last  the  perfect  clay! 


JUBILATE  ! 

JUBILATE  !    Jubilate ! 

Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day! 

Hear  the  mighty  chorus  swelling 

Over  land  and  over  sea! 

River  calls  aloud  to  river, 

Mountain  peak  to  mountain  peak 

Jubilate !    Jubilate ! 

Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day! 


Waken,  roses,  from  your  slumbers! 
Lilies,  wake, —  for  he  is  near! 
Happy  bells  in  wild-wood  arches, 
Ring  and  swing  in  sweet  accord ! 
84 


JUBILATE!  85 

Lift  your  voices,  O  ye  maples, 
Sing  aloud,  ye  stately  pines, 
Jubilate !    Jubilate ! 
Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day! 


O  thou  goddess  of  the  springtime, 

Fair  Ostera,  thou  art  dead ! 

Never  more  shall  priests  and  vestals 

Weave  fresh  garlands  for  thy  shrine; 

But  the  happy  voices  ringing, 

Over  land  and  over  sea, 

Swell  the  mighty  jubilate, — 

"  Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day ! " 


EASTER   LILIES. 

O  YE  dear  and  blessed  ones  who  are  done  with  sighing, 
Do  the  Easter  Lilies  blow  for  you  to-day  ? 

Do  the  shining  angels,  through  Heaven's  arches  flying, 
Bear  the  snow-white  blossoms  on  your  breasts  to  lay  ? 

For  we  cannot  reach  you,  O  our  well-beloved  — 
Nothing  can  we  do  for  you  save  to  hold  you  dear ; 

From  our  close  embraces  ye  are  far  removed, 
And  our  empty  yearnings  cannot  bring  you  near. 

Once  on  Easter  mornings  glad  we  gave  you  greeting  — 
Gave  you  fair  flowers,  singing, "  Christ  is  risen  to-day ! " 

Hands  were  clasped  together,  hearts   and  lips   were 

meeting  — 
Earth  and  we  together  sang  a  roundelay! 


EASTER  LILIES.  87 

Now  —  yet  why  repine  we  ? —  ye  are  done  with  sorrow  ; 

Life  and  Lent  are  over,  with  their  prayers  and  tears ; 
After  night  of  watching  came  the  glad  to-morrow, 

Came  the  blessed  sunshine  of  the  eternal  years. 

Surely  in  Jerusalem,  where  the  Lord  Christ  reigneth, 
Ye  with  saints  and  martyrs  keep  this  festal  day — 

And  the  holy  angels,  ere  its  glory  waneth, 

Heaven's  own  Easter  Lilies  on  your  breasts  shall  lay ! 


"O    WIND    THAT    BLOWS   OUT   OF 
THE    WEST." 

O  WIND  that  blows  out  of  the  West, 

Thou  hast  swept  over  mountain  and  sea, 
Dost  thou  bear  on  thy  swift,  glad  wings 

The  breath  of  my  love  to  me  ? 
Hast  thou  kissed  her  warm,  sweet  lips  ? 

Or  tangled  her  soft  brown  hair  ? 
Or  fluttered  the  fragrant  heart 

Of  the  rose  she  loves  to  wear  ? 

O  sun  that  goes  down  in  the  West, 
Hast  thou  seen  my  love  to-day, 

As  she  sits  in  her  beautiful  prime 
Under  skies  so  far  away  ? 


<0  WIND  THAT  BLOWS  OUT  OF  THE  WEST."  89 

Hast  thou  gilded  a  path  for  her  feet, 
Or  deepened  the  glow  on  her  cheeks, 

Or  bent  from  the  skies  to  hear 
The  low,  sweet  words  she  speaks? 

O  stars  that  are  bright  in  the  West 

When  the  hush  of  the  night  is  deep, 
Do  ye  see  my  love  as  she  lies 

Like  a  chaste,  white  flower  asleep  ? 
Does  she  smile  as  she  walks  with  me 

In  the  light  of  a  happy  dream, 
While  the  night  winds  rustle  the  leaves, 

And  the  light  waves  ripple  and  gleam  ? 

O  birds  that  fly  out  of  the  West, 

Do  ye  bring  me  a  message  from  her, 
As  sweet  as  your  love-notes  are, 

When  the  warm  spring  breezes  stir? 
Did  she  whisper  a  word  of  me 

Ar;  your  tremulous  wings  swept  by, 
Or  utter  my  name,  mayhap, 

In  a  single  passionate  cry  ? 


90  «0  WIND  THAT  BLOWS  OUT  OF  THE  WESTS 

O  voices  out  of  the  West, 

Ye  are  silent  every  one, 
And  never  an  answer  comes 

From  wind,  or  stars,  or  sun ! 
And  the  blithe  birds  come  and  go 

Through  the  boundless  fields  of  space, 
As  reckless  of  human  prayers 

As  if  earth  were  a  desert  place ! 


A   SUMMER  SONG. 

ROLY-POLY  honey-bee, 

Humming  in  the  clover, 
Under  you  the  tossing  leaves, 

And  the  blue  sky  over, 
Why  are  you  so  busy,  pray  ? 

Never  still   a  minute, 
Hovering  now  above  a  flower, 

Now  half-buried  in  it ! 

Jaunty  robin-redbreast, 

Singing  loud  and  cheerly, 
From  the  pink- white  apple-tree 

In  the  morning  early, 
Tell  me,  is  your  merry  song 

Just  for  your  own  pleasure, 
Poured  from  such  a  tiny  throat, 

Without  stint  or  measure  ? 


92  A    SUMMER  SONG. 

Little  yellow  buttercup, 

By  the  way-side  smiling, 
Lifting  up  your  happy  face, 

With  such  sweet  beguiling, 
Why  are  you  so  gayly  clad  — 

Cloth  of  gold  your  raiment  ? 
Do  the  sunshine  and  the  dew 

Look  to  you  for  payment  ? 

Roses  in  the  garden  beds, 

Lilies,  cool  and  saintly, 
Darling  blue-eyed  violets, 

Pansies,  hooded  quaintly, 
Sweet-peas  that,  like  butterflies, 

Dance  the  bright  skies  under, 
Bloom  ye  for  your  own  delight, 

Or  for  ours,  I  wonder ! 


THE    URN. 

ACROSS  the  blue  Atlantic  waves 
She  sent  a  little  gift  to  me; 

A  golden  urn  —  a  graceful  toy 
As  one  need  care  to  see. 


Smiling,  I  held  it  in  my  hand, 

Thinking  her  message  o'er  and  o'er, 

Nor  dreamed  her  swift  feet  pressed  so  near 
The  undiscovered  shore. 


Oh !   had  it  been  a  funeral  urn  — 
The  gift  my  darling  sent  to  me 

With  loving  thoughts  and  tender  words 
Across  the  heaving  sea  — 

93 


94  THE    URN. 

A  funeral  urn  which  might  have  held 
Her  sacred  ashes,  sealed  in  re;t 

Utter  as  that  which  holds  in  thrall 
Some  pulseless  marble  breast! 


Where  drifts  she  now?  On  what  far  seas 
Floateth  to-day  her  golden  hair? 

What  stars  behold  her  pale  hands,  clasped 
In  ecstasy  of  prayer? 


For  ever  in  this  thought  of  mine, 
Like  the  fair  Lady  of  Shalott, 

She  drifteth,  drifteth  with  the  tide, 
But  never  comes  to  Camelot! 


THE    PARSON'S    DAUGHTER. 

"  Ho  !    HO  ! "  he  cried,  as  up  and  down 

He  rode  through  the  streets  of  Windham  town  — 

"  Ho  !    ho  !    for  the  day  of  peace  is  done, 

And  the  day  of  wrath  too  well  begun  ! 

Bring  forth  the  grain  from  your  barns  and  mills ; 

Drive  down  the  cattle  from  off  your  hills ; 

For  Boston  lieth  in  sore  distress, 

Pallid  with  hunger  and  long  duress  : 

Her  children  starve,  while  she  hears  the  beat 

And  the  tramp  of  the  red-coats  in  every  street ! " 

"  What,  ho  !     What,  ho  !  "     Like  a  storm  unspent, 

Over  the  hill-sides  he  came  and  went; 

And  Parson  White,  from  his  open  door 

Leaning  bare-headed  that  August  day, 

While  the  sun  beat  down  on  his  temples  gray, 

WTatched  him  until  he  could  see  no  more. 

95 


96  THE  PARSON'S  DAUGHTER. 

Then  straight  he  strode  to  the  church,  and  flung 
His  whole  soul  into  the  peal  he  rung; 
Pulling  the  bell-rope  till  the  tower 
Seemed  to  rock  in  the  sudden  shower — 

The  shower  of  sound  the  farmers  heard, 

Rending  the  air  like  a  living  word ! 

Then  swift  they  gathered  with  right  good-will 

From  field  and  anvil  and  shop  and  mill, 

To  hear  what  the  parson  had  to  say 

That  would  not  keep  till  the  Sabbath-day. 

For  only  the  women  and  children  knew 

The  tale  of  the  horseman  galloping  through  — 

The  message  he  bore  as  up  and  down 

He  rode  through  the  streets  of  Windham  town. 

That  night,  as  the  parson  sat  at  ease 
In  the  porch,  with  his  Bible  on  his  knees 
(Thanking  God  that  at  break  of  day 
Frederic  Manning  would  take  his  way, 
With  cattle  and  sheep  from  off  the  hills, 
And  a  load  of  grain  from  the  barns  and  mills, 


THE  PARSON'S  DAUGHTER.  97 

To  the  starving  city  where  General  Gage 
Waited  unholy  war  to  wage), 
His  little  daughter  beside  him  stood, 
Hiding  her  face  in  her  muslin  hood. 

In  her  arms  her  own  pet  lamb  she  bore, 

As  it  struggled  down  to  the  oaken  floor: 

"It  must  go;  I  must  give  my  lamb,"  she  said, 

"  To  the  children  that  cry  for  meat  and  bread," 

Then  lifted  to  his  her  holy  eyes, 

Wet  with  the  tears  of  sacrifice. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  he  answered,  "  There  is  no  need 

That  the  hearts  of  babes  should  ache  and  bleed. 

Run  away  to  your  bed,  and  to-morrow  play, 

You  and  your  pet,  through  the  livelong  day." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shining  hair, 
And  smiled  as  he  blessed  her,  standing  there, 
With  kerchief  folded  across  her  breast, 
And  her  small  brown  hands  together  pressed, 
A  quaint  little  maiden,  shy  and  sweet, 
With  her  lambkin  crouched  at  her  dainty  feet. 
13 


THE  PARSON'S  DAUGHTER. 

Away  to  its  place  the  lamb  she  led, 
Then  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  own  white  bed, 
While  the  moon  rose  up,  and  the  stars  looked  down 
On  the  silent  streets  of  Windham  town. 

But  when  the  heralds  of  morning  came, 
Flushing  the  east  with  rosy  flame, 
With  low  of  cattle  and  scurry  of  feet, 
Driving  his  herd  down  the  village  street, 
Young  Manning  heard  from  a  low  stone  wall 
A  child's  voice  clearly  yet  softly  call, 
And  saw  in  the  gray  dusk  standing  there 
A  little  maiden  with  shining  hair, 
While  crowding  close  to  her  tender  side 
Was  a  snow-white  lamb  to  her  apron  tied. 

"  Oh,  wait !  "  she  cried,  "  for  my  lamb  must  go 
To  the  children  crying  in  want  and  woe. 
It  is  air  I  have."    And  her  tears  fell  fast 
As  she  gave  it  one  eager  kiss  —  the  last. 
"  The  road  will  be  long  to  its  feet.     I  pray 
Let  your  arms  be  its  bed  a  part  of  the  way; 


THE  PARSON'S  DAUGHTER.  99 

And  give  it  cool  water  and  tender  grass 
Whenever  a  way-side  brook  you  pass." 
Then  away  she  flew  like  a  startled  deer, 
Nor  waited  the  bleat  of  her  lamb  to  hear. 

Young  Manning  lifted  his  steel-blue  eyes 

One  moment  up  to  the  morning  skies ; 

Then,  raising  the  lamb  to  his  breast,  he  strode 

Sturdily  down  the  lengthening  road. 

"  Now  God  be  my  helper,"  he  cried,  "  and  lead 

Me  safe  with  my  charge  to  the  souls  in  need ! 

Through  fire  and  flood,  through  dearth  and  dole, 

Though  foes  assail  me  and  war-clouds  roll, 

To  the  city  in  want  and  woe  that  lies 

I  will  bear  this  lamb  as  a  sacrifice." 


MARCH    FOURTH. 

1881-1882. 

ONE  year  ago  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd, 

The  drum's  long  thunder  and  the  bugle's  blare, 

The  bell's  gay  clamor,  pealing  clear  and  loud, 
And  rapturous  music  filling  all  the  air : 

One  year  ago,  on  roofs  and  domes  and  spires, 
Ten  thousand  banners  bursting  into  bloom 

As  the  proud  day  advanced  its  golden  fires, 
And  all  the  crowding  centuries  gave  it  room ; 

One  year  ago  the  laurel  and  the  palm, 

The  upward  path,  the  height  undimmed  and  far? 

And  in  the  clear,  strong  light,  serene  and  calm, 
One  high,  pure  spirit,  shining  like  a  star ! 


MARCH  FOURTH.  101 

To-day  —  for  loud  acclaims,  the  long  lament ; 

For  shouts  of  triumph,  tears  that  fall  like  rain ; 
A  world  remembering,  with  vain  anguish  rent, 

Thy  long,  unmurmuring  martyrdom  of  pain  ! 

The  year  moves  on ;  the  seasons  come  and  go ; 

Day  follows  day,  and  pale  stars  rise  and  set ; 
Oh!   in  yon  radiant  heaven  dost  thou  know 

The  land  that  loved  thee  never  can  forget  ? 

It  doth  not  swerve  —  it  keeps  its  onward  way, 
Unfaltering  still,  from  farthest  sea  to  sea; 

Yet,  while  it  owns  another's  rightful  sway, 

It  patient  grows  and  strong,  remembering  thee ! 


ROY. 

OUR  Prince  has  gone  to  his  inheritance ! 

Think  it  not  strange.  What  if,  with  slight  half-smile, 
Some  crowned  king  to  leave  his  throne  should 
chance, 

And  try  the  rough  ways  of  the  world  awhile  ? 

Ere  he  had  wearied  of  its  storm  and  stress, 
Would  he  not  hasten  to  his  own  again  ? 

Why  should  he  bear  its  labor  and  duress, 
And  all  the  untold  burden  of  its  pain  ? 

Or  what  if  from  the  golden  palace  gate 

The  king's   fair   son  on  some  bright  morn  should 
stray  ? 

Would  he  not  send  his  lords  of  high  estate 
To  lead  him  back  ere  fell  the  close  of  day  ? 


ROY.  103 

Even  so  our  King  from  Heaven's  high  portals  saw 
The  fair  young   Prince  where   earth's   dull   shades 
advance, 

And  sent  his  messengers  of  love  and  law 
To  bear  him  home  to  his  inheritance ! 


THE    PAINTER'S    PRAYER. 

•'  NEC   ME    PRjETERMITTAS,    DOMINE  !  " 

(An  incident  in   the   painting  of  Holman   Hunt's 
"Light  of  the  World.") 

"  NAY,"  he  said,  "  it  is  not  done ! 
At  to-morrow's  set  of  sun 
Come  again,  if  you  would  see 
What  the  finished  thought  may  be." 
Straight  they  went.     The  heavy  door 
On  its  hinges  swung  once  more, 
As  within  the  studio  dim 
Eye  and  heart  took  heed  of  Him! 

How  the  Presence  filled  the  room, 
Brightening  all  its  dusky  gloom ! 
Saints  and  martyrs  turned  their  eyes 
From  the  hills  of  Paradise; 


THE  PAINTER'S  PRAYER. 

Rapt  in  holy  ecstasy, 

Mary  smiled  her  Son  to  see, 

Letting  all  her  lilies  fall 

At  his  feet  —  the  Lord  of  all! 

But  the  painter  bowed  his  head, 

Lost  in  wonder  and  in  dread, 

And  as  at  a  holy  shrine 

Knelt  before  the  form  divine. 

All  had  passed  —  the  pride,  the  power, 

Of  the  soul's  creative  hour  — 

Exaltation's  soaring  flight 

To  the  spirit's  loftiest  height. 

Had  he  dared  to  paint  the  Lord  ? 
Dared  to  paint  the  Christ,  the  Word ! 
Ah,  the  folly!     Ah,  the  sin! 
Ah,  the  shame  his  soul  within ! 
Saints  might  turn  on  Him  their  eyes 
From  the  hills  of  Paradise, 
But  the  painter  could  not  brook 
On  that  pictured  face  to  look. 


io6  THE  PAINTER'S  PRAYER. 

Yet  the  form  was  grand  and  fair, 
Fit  to  move  a  world  to  prayer; 
Godlike  in  its  strength  and  stress, 
Human  in  its  tenderness.    • 
From  it  streamed  the  Light  divine, 
O'er  it  drooped  the  heavenly  vine, 
And  beneath  the  bending  spray 
Stood  the  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way! 

Suddenly  with  eager  hold, 
Back  he  swept  the  curtain's  fold, 
Letting  all  the  sunset  glow 
O'er  the  living  canvas  flow. 
Surely  then  the  wondrous  eyes 
Met  his  own  in  tenderest  wise, 
And  the  Lord  Christ,  half  revealed, 
Smiled  upon  him  as  he  kneeled ! 

Trembling,  throbbing,  quick  as  thought, 
Up  he  brush  and  palette  caught, 
And  where  deepest  shade  was  thrown 
Set  one  sign  for  God  alone! 


THE  PAINTER'S  PRAYER.  107 

Years  have  passed  —  but,  even  yet, 
Where  the  massive  frame  is  set 
You  may  find  these  words  :   "  Nee  me 
Pr&termittas  ,  Djinir^e  /  " 


"  Neither  pass  me  by,  O  Lord  !  " 
Christ,  the  Life,  the  Light,  the  Word, 
Low  we  bow  before  thy  feet, 
Thy  remembrance  to  entreat  ! 
In  our  soul's  most  secret  place, 
For  no  eye  but  thine  to  trace,. 
Lo  !    this  prayer  we  write  :  "  Nee  me 
Prceterniittas,  Do/nine  !  " 


FROM    EXILE. 

PARIS,  SEPTEMBER  3,  1879. 

(A  Mother  speaks.) 

AH,  dear  God,  when  will  it  be  day  ? 
I  can  not  sleep,  I  can  not  pray. 
Tossing,  I  watch  the  silent  stars 
Mount  up  from  the  horizon  bars: 
Orion  with  his  flaming  sword, 
Proud  chieftain  of  the  glorious  horde; 
Auriga  up  the  lofty  arch 
Pursuing  still  his  stately  march  — 
So  patient  and  so  calm  are  they. 
Ah,  dear  God !  when  will  it  be  day  ? 

—  O  Mary,  Mother !  — Hark  !  I  hear 
A  cock  crow  through  the  silence  clear ! 
The  dawn's  faint  crimson  streaks  the  east, 
And,  afar  off,  I  catch  the  least 


FROM  EXILE.  109 

Low  murmur  of  the  city's  stir 
As  she  shakes  off  the  dreams  of  her! 
List!  there's  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet 
Far  down  below  me  in  the  street. 
Thank  God!  the  weary  night  is  past, 
The  morning  comes — 'tis  day  at  last. 

Wake,  Rosalie!    Awake!  arise! 

The  sun  is  up,  it  gilds  the  skies. — 

She  does  not  stir.     The  young  sleep  sound 

As  dead  men  in  their  graves  profound. 

Ho,  Rosalie!    At  last?     Now  haste! 

To-day  there  is  no  time  to  waste. 

Bring  me  fresh  water.     Braid  my  hair. 

Hand  me  the  glass.     Once  I  was  fair 

As  thou  art.     Now  I  look  so  old 

It  seems  my  death-knell  should  be  tolled. 

111?    No!    (I  want  no  wine.)    So  pale? 
Like  a  white  ghost,  so  wan  and  frail? 
Well,  that's  not  strange.     All  night  I  lay 
Waiting  and  watching  for  the  day. 


FROM  EXILE. 

But  —  there  !  I'll  drink  it ;  it  may  make 
My  cheeks  burn  brighter  for  his  sake 
Who  comes  to-day.     My  boy !  my  boy  ! 
How  can  I  bear  the  unwonted  joy? 
I,  who  for  eight  long  years  have  wept 
While  happier  mothers  smiling  slept; 
While  others  decked  their  sons  first-born 
For  dance,  or  fete,  or  bridal  morn, 
Or  proudly  smiled  to  see  them  stand 
The  stateliest  pillars  of  the  land! 
For  he,  so  gallant  and  so  gay, 
As  young  and  debonair  as  they, 
My  beautiful,  brave  boy,  my  life, 
Went  down  in  the  unequal  strife! 
The  right  or  wrong  ?     Oh,  what  care  I  ? 
The  good  God  judgeth  up  on  high. 


And  now  He  gives  him  back  to  me ! 
I  tremble  so  —  I  scarce  can  see. 
How  full  the  streets  are !     I  will  wait 
His  coming  here  beside  this  gate, 


FROM  EXILE.  in 

From  which  I  watched  him  as  he  went, 
Eight  years  ago,  to  banishment. 
Let  me  sit  down. —  Speak,  Rosalie,  when 
You  see  a  band  of  stalwart  men, 
With  one  fair  boy  among  them — one 
With  bright  hair  shining  in  the  sun, 
Red,  smiling  lips,  and  eager  eyes, 
Blue  as  the  blue  of  summer  skies. 

My  boy!   my  boy! Why  come  they  not? 

O  Son  of  God !  hast  Thou  forgot 

Thy  Mother's  agony  ?     Yet  she, 

Was  she  not  stronger  far  than  we, 

We  common  mothers  ?     Could  she  know 

From  her  far  heights  such  pain  and  woe?  — 

Run  farther  down  the  street,  and  see 

If  they're  not  coming,  Rosalie! 


Mother  of  Christ!   how  lag  the  hours!  — 
What  ?   just  beyond  the  convent  towers, 
And  coming  straight  this  way?     O  heart, 
Be  still  and  strong,  and  bear  thy  part, 


FROM  EXILE. 

Thy  new  part,  bravely.     Hark !    I  hear 

Above  the  city's  hum  the  near 

Slow  tread  of  marching  feet ;  I  see  — 

Nay,  I  can  not  see,  Rosalie ! 

Your  eyes  are  younger.     Is  he  there, 

My  Antoine,  with  his  sunny  hair  ? 

It  is  like  gold;  it  shines  in  the  sun: 

Surely  you  see  it? — What?     Not  one  — 

Not  one  bright  head  ?     All  old,  old  men, 

Gray-haired,  gray-bearded,  gaunt  ?   Then — then 

He  has  not  come — he  is  ill,, or  dead! 

O  God,  that  I  were  in  thy  stead, 

My  son  !    my  son  !  — Who  touches  me  ? 

— Your  pardon,  sir.     I  am  not  she 

Fcr  whom  you  look.     Go  farther  on 

Ere  yet  the  daylight  shall  be  gone. — 


"  Mcther !  "    Who  calls  me  "  Mother  "  ?    You  ? 
You  are  not  he  —  my  Antoine  !     You 
Are  a  gray-bearded  man,  and  he 
Was  a  mere  boy  who  went  from  me, 


FROM  EXILE.  113 

Only  a  boy!  —  I'm  sorry,  sir. 

God  bless  you !     Soon  you  will  find  her 

For  whom  you  seek.     But  I  —  ah,  I  — 

Still  must  I  call  and  none  reply ! 

You  —  kiss  me?     Antoine  ?     O  my  son! 

Thou  art  mine  own,  my  banished  one ! 


A   MOTHER- SONG. 

SLEEP,  baby,  sleep  !     The  Christmas  stars  are  shining, 
Clear  and  bright  the  Christmas  stars  climb  up  the 
vaulted  sky ; 

Low  hangs  the  pale  moon,  in  the  west  declining : 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep,  the  Christmas  morn  is  nigh  ! 

Hush,  baby,  hush  !     For  Earth  her  watch  is  keeping ; 

Watches  and  waits  she  the  angels'  song  to  hear; 
Listening   for   the   swift   rush   of  their  wings   down- 
sweeping, 

Joy  and  Peace  proclaiming  through   the  midnight 
clear. 

Dream,  baby,  dream  !    The  far-off  chimes  are  ringing ; 
Tenderly  and  solemnly  the  music  soars  and  swells ; 


A   MOTHER-SONG.  115 

With  soft  reverberation  the  happy  bells  are  swinging, 
While  each  to  each  responsive  the  same  sweet  story 
tells ! 

Hark,  baby,  hark !     Hear  how  the  choral  voices, 
All  jubilantly  singing,  take  up  the  glad  refrain, 

"  Unto  you  is  born  a  Saviour," — while  heaven  with 

earth  rejoices, 
And  all  its  lofty  battlements  reecho  with  the  strain  ! 

Wake,  baby,  wake !     For,  lo  !   in  floods  of  glory 
The  Christmas  Day  advances  over  the  hills  of  morn  ! 

Wake,  baby,  wake !    and  smile  to  hear  the  story 
How  Christ,  the  Son  of  Mary,  in  Bethlehem  was 
born ! 


EASTER    MORNING. 

DAME  MARGARET  spake  to  Annie  Blair, 

To  Annie  Blair  spake  she, 
As  from  beneath  her  wrinkled  hand 

She  peered  far  out  to  sea. 

"  Look  forth,  look  forth,  O  Annie  Blair, 

For  my  old  eyes  are  dim ; 
See  you  a  single  boat  afloat 

Within  the  horizon's  rim  ? " 

Sweet  Annie  looked  to  east,  to  west, 
To  north  and  south  looked  she : 

There  was  no  single  boat  afloat 
Upon  the  angry  sea. 


EASTER  MORNING.  117 

The  sky  was  dark,  the  winds  were  high, 

The  breakers  lashed  the  shore, 
And  louder  and  still  louder  swelled 

The  tempest's  sullen  roar. 

"  Look  forth  again,"  Dame  Margaret  cried : 

"  Doth  any  boat  come  in  ?  " 
And  scarce  she  heard  the  answering  word 

Above  the  furious  din. 

"  Pray  God  no  boat  may  put  to  sea 

In  such  a  gale!"  she  said; 
"  Pray  God  no  soul  may  dare  to-night 

The  rocks  of  Danger  Head ! " 

"  This  is  Good  Friday,  Annie  Blair," 

Dame  Margaret  cried  again, 
"  When  Mary's  Son,  the  Merciful, 

On  Calvary  was  slain. 

"  The  earth  did  quake,  the  rocks  were  rent, 
The  graves  were  opened  wide, 


EASTER  MORNING. 

And  darkness  like  to  this  fell  down 
When  He  — the  Holy  — died. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  O  Annie  Blair ; 

Your  two  knees  fall  upon  ; 
Christ  send  to  you  your  lover  back  — 

To  me,  my  only  son  ! " 

All  night  they  watched,  all  night  they  prayed, 

All  night  they  heard  the  roar 
Of  the  fierce  breakers  dashing  high 

Upon  the  lonely  shore. 

Oh,  hark !  strange  footsteps  on  the  sand, 

A  voice  above  the  din  : 
*'  Dame  Margaret !    Dame  Margaret ! 

Is  Annie  Blair  within  ? 

"  High  on  the  rocks  of  Danger  Head 

Her  lover's  boat  is  cast, 
All  rudderless,  all  anchorless  — 

Mere  hull  and  splintered  mast." 


EASTER  MORNING,  119 

Oh,  hark !   slow  footsteps  on  the  sand, 

And  women  wailing  sore : 
"  Dame  Margaret !  Dame   Margaret ! 

Your  son  you  '11  see  no  more ! 

"  God  pity  you  !   Christ  comfort  you  !  " 

The  weeping  women  cried ; 
But  "  May  God  pity  Annie  Blair !  " 

Dame  Margaret  replied. 

"  For  lite  is  long  and  youth  is  strong, 

And  it  must  still  bear  on. 
Leave  us  alone  to  make  our  moan  — 

My  son  !  alas,  my  son  ! " 

The  Easter  morning,  flushed  with  joy, 

Saw  all  the  winds  at  rest, 
And  far  and  near  the  blue  sea  smiled 

With  sunshine  on  its  breast. 

The  neighbors  came,  the  neighbors  went; 
They  sought  the  house  of  prayer; 


EASTER  MORNING. 

But  on  the  rocks  of  Danger  Head 
The  dame  and  Annie  Blair, 

With  still,  white  faces,  watched  the  deep 

Without  a  tear  or  moan. 
"  I  cannot  weep,"  said  Annie  Blair — 

"  My  heart  is  turned  to  stone." 

Forth  from  the  church  the  pastor  came, 

And  up  the  rocks  strode  he, 
Baring  his  thin  white  locks  to  meet 

The  salt  breath  of  the  sea. 

"  The  rocks  shall  rend,  the  earth  shall  quake, 

The  sea  give  up  its  dead, 
For  Christ  our  Lord  is  risen  indeed — 

'Tis  Easter  morn,"  he  said. 

Oh,  hark  !  oh,  hark  !     A  startled  cry, 

A  rush  of  hurrying  feet, 
The  swarming  of  a  hundred  men 

Adown  the  village  street. 


EASTER  MORNING. 

"  Now  unto  God  and  Christ  the  Lord 
Be  praise  and  thanks  alway! 

The  sea  hath  given  up  its  dead 
This  blessed  Easter-day." 


16 


SEALED    ORDERS. 

"  OH,  whither  bound,  my  captain  ? 

The  wind  is  blowing  free, 
And  overhead  the  white  sails  spread 

As  we  go  out  to  sea." 

He  looked  to  north,  he  looked  to  south, 

Or  ever  a  word  he  spake ; 
"  AVith  orders  sealed  my  sails  I  set — 

Due  east  my  course  I  take." 

"  But  to  what  port  ?"  "  Nay,  nay,"  he  cried, 

"  This  only  do  I  know, 
That  I  must  sail  due  eastward 

Whatever  wind  may  blow." 


SEALED  ORDERS.  123 

For  many  a  day  we  sailed  east. 

"  O  captain,  tell  me  true, 
When  will  our  good  ship  come  to  port  ? " 

"  I  cannot  answer  you  ! " 

"  Then,  prithee,  gallant  captain, 

Let  us  but  drift  awhile  ! 
The  current  setteth  southward 

Past  many  a  sunny  isle, 

"  Where  cocoas  grow,  and  mangoes, 

And  groves  of  feathery  palm, 
And  nightingales  sing  all  night  long 

To  roses  breathing  balm." 

"  Nay,  tempt  me  not,"  he  answered, 

"  This  only  do  I  know, 
That  I  must  sail  due  eastward 

Whatever  winds  may  blow ! " 

Then  sailed  we  on,  and  sailed  we  cast, 
Into  the  whirlwind's  track. 


I24  SEALED  ORDERS. 

Wild  was  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  sea  was  strewn  with  wrack. 

"  Oh,  turn  thee,  turn  thee,  captain, 
Thou  'rt  rushing  on  to  death ! " 

But  back  he  answer  shouted, 
With  unabated  breath : 

"  Turn  back  who  will,  I  turn  not ! 

For  this  one  thing  I  know, 
That  I  must  sail  due  eastward 

However  winds  may  blow  ! " 

"  Oh,  art  thou  fool  or  madman  ? 

Thy  port  is  but  a  dream, 
And  never  on  the  horizon's  rim 

Will  its  fair  turrets  gleam." 

Then  smiled  the  captain  wisely, 
And  slowly  answered  he, 

The  while  his  keen  glance  widened 
Over  the  lonely  sea : 


SEALED  ORDERS.  125 

"  I  carry  sealed  orders. 

This  only  thing  I  know, 
That  I  must  sail  due  eastward 

Whatever  winds  may  blow  ! " 


"  NO   MORE   THE 
THUNDER    OF    CANNON." 

No  MORE  the  thunder  of  cannon, 

No  more  the  clashing  of  swords, 
No  more  the  rage  of  the  contest, 

Nor  the  rush  of  contending  hordes  : 
But,  instead,  the  glad  reunion, 

The  clasping  of  friendly  hands, 
The  song,  for  the  shout  of  battle, 

Heard  over  the  waiting  lands. 

O  brothers,  to-night  we  greet  you 
With  smiles,  half  sad,  half  gay  — 

For  our  thoughts  are  flying  backward 
To  the  years  so  far  away — 
126 


<ArO  MORE   THE    THUNDER   OF  CANNON."    127 

When  with  you  who  were  part  of  the  conflict, 

With  us  who  remember  it  all, 
Youth  marched  with  his  waving  banner, 

And  his  voice  like  a  bugle  call ! 

We  would  not  turn  back  the  dial, 

Nor' live  over  the  past  again; 
We  \vould  not  the  path  re-travel, 

Nor  barter  the  "  now  "  for  the  "  then." 
Yet,  oh,  for  the  bounding  pulses, 

And  the  strength  to  do  and  dare, 
When  life  was  one  grand  endeavor, 

And  work  clasped  hands  with  prayer!    / 

But  blessed  are  ye,  O  brothers, 

Who  feel  in  your  souls  alway 
The  thrill  of  the  stirring  summons 

You  heard  but  to  obey; 
Who,  whether  the  years  go  swift, 

Or  whether  the  years  go  slow, 
Will  wear  in  your  hearts  forever 

The  glory  of  long  ago ! 


AN   ANNIVERSARY. 

S0  long,  so  short, 

So  swift,  so  slow, 
Are  the  years  of  man 

As  they  come  and  go! 

O  love,  it  was  so  long  ago ! 

So  long,  so  long  that  we  were  young. 
And  in  the  cloisters  of  our  hearts 

Hope  all  her  joy-bells  rung ! 
So  long,  so  long  that  since  that  hour 

Full  half  a  lifetime  hath  gone  by  — 
How  ran  the  days  ere  first  we  met, 

Beloved,  thou  and  I? 


AN  ANNIVERSARY.  129 

We  had  our  dreams,  no  doubt.     The  dawn 

Must  still  presage  the  rising  sun, 
And  rose  and  crimson  flush  the  east 

Ere  day  is  well  begun. 
We  had  our  dreams  —  fair,  shadowy  wraiths 

That  fled  when  Day's  full  splendor  kissed 
Our  souls'  high  places,  and  its  winds 

Swept  the  vales  clear  of  mist ! 

So  fang,  so  short. 

So  swift,  so  slow, 
Are  the  years  of  man 

As  they  come  and  go ! 

O  love,  it  was  but  yesterday ! 

Who  said  it  was  so  long  ago  ? 
How  many  times  the  rose  hath  bloomed, 

Why  should  we  care  to  know  ? 
For  it  was  just  as  sweet  last  June, 

As  dewy  fresh,  as  fair,  as  red, 
As  when  our  first  glad  Eden  knew 

The  rare  perfumes  it  shed  ! 


I3o  AN  ANNIVERSARY. 

O  love,  it  was  but  yesterday! 

If  yesterday  is  far  away, 
As  brightly  on  the  hill-tops  lies 

The  sunshine  of  to-day. 
Sing  thou,  my  soul !     O  heart,  be  glad ! 

O  circling  years,  fly  swift  or  slow  ! 
Your  ripening  harvests  shall  not  fail, 

Nor  Autumn's  utmost  slow. 


MARTHA. 

YEA,  Lord !  —  Yet  some  must  serve. 

Not  all  with   tranquil  heart, 
Even  at  thy  dear  feet, 
Wrapped  in  devotion  sweet, 

May  sit  apart ! 

Yea,  Lord  !  —  Yet  some  must  bear 

The  burden  of  the  day, 
Its  labor  and  its  heat, 
While  others  at  thy  feet 

May  muse  and  pray! 

Yea,  Lord  !  — Yet  some  must  do 

Life's  daily  task- work;  some 
Who  fain  would  sing,  must  toil 
Amid  earth's  dust  and  moil, 
While  lips  arc  dumb ! 


132  MARTHA. 

Yea,  Lord  !  —  Yet  man  must  earn, 
And  woman  bake  the  bread; 

And  some  must  watch  and  wake 

Early,  for  others'  sake, 
Who  pray  instead ! 

Yea,  Lord  !  —  Yet  even  thou 
Hast  need  of  earthly  care. 
I  bring  the  bread  and  wine 
To  thee,  O  Guest  Divine! 
Be  this  my  prayer! 


THE   HOUR. 

WHAT  is  the  hour  of  the  day  ? 

O  watchman,  can  you  tell  ? 
Hark!    from  the  tower  of  Time 

Strikes  the  alarum-bell ! 

The  strokes  I  cannot  count. 

O  watchman,  can  you  see 
On  the  misty  dial-plate 

What  hours  remain  for  me  ? 

I  know  the  rosy  dawn 

Faded  —  how  long  ago!  — 

Lost  in  the  radiant  depths 
Of  morning's  golden  glow. 


I34  THE  HOUR. 

Then  all  the  mountain-tops 
Stood  breathless  at  high  noon, 

While  earth  for  brief  repose 
Put  off  her  sandal  shoon. 

Now  faster  fly  the  hours  — 
The  afternoon  is  here; 

O  watchman  in  the  tower, 
Tell  me,  is  sunset  near  ? 

Yet  —  why  care  I  to  know?—- 
Beyond  the  sunset  bars 

Upon  the  dead  day  wait 
The  brightest  of  the  stars  ! 


THE    CLOSED    GATE. 

I  WALKED  along  a  narrow  way; 

The  sun  was  shining  everywhere; 
The  jocund  earth  was  glad  and  gay, 

With  morning  freshness  in  the  air. 

The  grass  was  green  beneath  my  feet; 

The  skies  were  blue  and  soft  o'erhead; 
The  robin  carolled  clear  and  sweet, 

And  flowers  their  fragrance  round  me  shed. 

How  shone  the  great  hills  far  away ; 

How  clear  they  rose  against  the  blue 
How  fair  the  tranquil  meadows  lay, 

Where  the  bright  river  glances  through ! 
135 


136  THE   CLOSED   GATE. 

But  suddenly,  as  on  I  pressed, 
Before  me  frowned  a  closed  gate ; 

Filled  with  dismay,  and  sore  distressed, 
I  strove  in  vain  to  conquer  fate! 

Beyond,  the  hills  for  which  I  sighed  — 

Beyond,  the  valleys  still  and  fair  — 
Beyond,  the  meadows  stretching  wide, 

And  all  the  shining  fields  of  air! 

***** 

What  does  it  mean,  O  Father!  when 

Thy  children  reach  some  closed  gate, 
Which,  though  they  knock  and  knock  again, 

Will  not  its  watch  and  ward  abate  ? 

Still  shall  they  batter  at  the  walls  ? 

Or  still,  like  children,  cry  and  fret, 
While  the  loud  clamor  of  their  calls 

Swells  high  in  turbulent  regret  ? 

When  thou  hast  barred  the  door,  shall  they 
Challenge  thy  wisdom,  God  of  love  ? 


THE   CLOSED   GATE.  137 

Or  humbly  wait  beside  the  way 
Till  thou  the  barrier  shalt  remove  ? 

Too  oft  we  cannot  hear  thee  speak, 
So  loud  our  voices  and  our  prayers, 

While  to  the  patient  and  the  meek 
The  gate  thou  openest  unawares ! 


1 8 


CONTENT. 

NOT  asking  how  or  why. 

Before  thy  will 
O  Father,  let  my  heart 

Lie  hushed  and  still! 

Why  should  I  seek  to  know  ? 

Thou  art  all-wise; 
If  thou  dost  bid  me  go, 

Let  that  suffice. 

If  thou  dost  bid  me  stay, 

Make  me  content 
In  narrow  bounds  to  dwell 

Till  life  be  spent. 


CONTENT.  139 

If  thou  dost  seal  the  lips 

That  fain  would  speak, 
Let  me  be  still  till  thou 

The  seal  shalt  break. 


If  thou  dost  make  pale  Pain 

Thy  minister, 
Then  let  my  patient  heart 

Clasp  hands  with  her. 

Or,  if  thou  sendest  Joy 

To  walk  with  me, 
My  Father,  let  her  lead 

Me  nearer  thee ! 

Teach  me  that  Joy  and  Pain 

Alike  are  thine; 
Teach  me  my  life  to  leave 

In  hands  divine! 


WONDERLAND. 

THEY  tell  me  you  have  been  in  Wonderland. 
Why,  so  have  I !    No  boat's  keel  touched  the  strand, 
No  white  sails  flew,  no  swiftly  gliding  car 
Bore  me  to  mystic  realms,  unknown  and  far. 

And  yet  I,  too,  with  these  same  questioning  eyes, 
Have  seen  its  mountains  and  beheld  its  skies; 
I,  too,  have  been  in  Wonderland,  and  know 
How  through  its  secret  vales  the  weird  winds  blow. 

One  morn,  in  Wonderland  —  one  chill  spring  morn — 
I  saw  a  princess  sleeping,  pale  and  lorn, 
Cold  as  a  corse ;  when,  lo !  from  out  the  south 
A  young  knight  rode,  and  kissed  her  sad,  sweet  mouth. 


WONDERLAND.  141 

She  smiled,  she  woke  !    Then  rang  from  far  and  near 
Her  minstrels'  voices,  jubilant  and  clear; 
While  in  a  trice,  with  eager,  noiseless  feet, 
All  the  young  maiden  grasses,  fair  and  fleet, 

Ran  over  hill  and  dale,  to  bring  to  her 
Green  robes  with  wild  flowers  'broidered.     All  astir 
Were  the  gay,  courtier  butterflies;  the  trees 
Flung  forth  their  fluttering  banners  to  the  breeze; 

The  soft  airs  fanned  her;  and,  in  russet  dressed, 
Her  happy  servitors  around  her  pressed, 
Bearing  strange  sweets,  and  curious  flagons  filled 
With  life's  new  wine,  that  all  her  pulses  thrilled. 

In  this  same  Wonderland,  one  sweet  spring  day, 
In  a  gray  casket,  deftly  hidden  away, 
I  found  two  pearls;  but  as  I  looked  they  grew 
To  living  jewels,  that  took  wing  and  flew. 

And  once  a  creeping  worm,  within  my  sight 
Wove  its  own  shroud  and  coffin,  sealed  and  white; 


I42  WONDERLAND. 

Then,  bursting  from  its  cerements,  soared  in  air, 
A  radiant  vision,  most  supremely  fair. 

Out  of  the  darksome  mould,  before  my  eyes 
I  saw  a  shaft  of  emerald  arise, 
Bearing  a  silver  chalice  veined  with  gold, 
And  set  with  gems  of  splendors  manifold. 

Once  in  a  vast,  pale,  hollow  pearl  I  stood, 
When  o'er  the  vaulted  dome  there  swept  a  flood 
Of  lurid  waves,  and  a  dark  funeral  pyre 
Took  to  its  heart  a  globe  of  crimson  fire. 

The  pageant  faded.     Lo !  the  pearl  became 
A  liquid  sapphire,  touched  with  rosy  flame ; 
And  as  I  gazed,  a  silver  crescent  hung 
In  violet  depths,  a  thousand  stars  among. 

I  saw  a  woman,  marvellously  fair, 
Flushed  with  warm  life,  and  buoyant  as  the  air; 
Next  morn  she  was  a  statue,  breathless,  cold, 
A  marble  goddess  of  transcendent  mould. 


WONDERLAND.  143 

I  saw  a  folded  bud,  in  one  short  hour, 
Open  its  sweet,  warm  heart  and  be  a  flower. 
O  Wonderland  !   thou  art  so  near,  so  far ; 
Near  as  this  rose,  remote  as  yonder  star! 


THE    GUEST. 

O  THOU  Guest  so  long  delayed, 
Surely,  when  the  house'  was  made3 
In  its  chambers  wide  and  free, 
There  was  set  a  place  for  thee. 
Surely,  in  some  room  was  spread 
For  thy  sake  a  snowy  bed, 
Decked  with  linen  white  and  fine, 
Meet,  O  Guest,  for  use  of  thine. 

Yet  thou  hast  not  kept  the  tryst. 
Other  guests  our  lips  have  kissed: 
Other  guests  have  tarried  long, 
Wooed  by  sunshine  and  by  song ; 
For  the  year  was  bright  with  May, 
All  the  birds  kept  holiday, 
All  the  skies  were  clear  and  blue, 
When  this  house  of  ours  was  new. 


THE  GUEST.  145 

Youth  came  in  with  us  to  dwell, 
Crowned  with  rose  and  asphodel, 
Lingered  long,  and  even  yet 
Cannot  quite  his  haunts  forget. 
Love  hath  sat  beside  our  board, 
Brought  us  treasures  from  his  hoard, 
Brimmed  our  cups  \\ith  fragrant  wine. 
Vintage  of  the  hills  divine. 

Down  our  garden  path  has  strayed 
Young  Romance,  in  light  arrayed ; 
Joy  hath  flung  her  garlands  wide  • 
Faith  sung  low  at  eventide; 
Care  hath  flitted  in  and  out ; 
Sorrow  strewn  her  weeds  about; 
Hope  held  up  her  torch  on  high 
When  clouds  darkened  all  the  sky. 

Pain,  with  pallid  lips  and  thin, 
Oft  hath  slept  our  house  within; 
Life  hath  called  us,  loud  and  long, 
With  a  voice  as  trumpet  strong. 


146  THE   GUEST. 

Sometimes  we  have  thought,  O  Guest, 
Thou  wert  coming  with  the  rest, 
Watched  to  see  thy  shadow  fall 
On  the  inner  chamber  wall. 

For  we  know  that,  soon  or  late, 
Thou  wilt  enter  at  the  gate, 
Cross  the  threshold,  pass  the  door, 
Glide  at  will  from  floor  to  floor. 
When  thou  comest,  by  this  sign 
We  shall  know  thee,  Guest  divine : 
Though  alone  thy  coming  be, 
Some  one  must  go  forth  with  thee ! 


FORESHADOW!  NGS. 

WIND  of  the  winter  night, 
Under  the  starry  skies 
Somewhere  my  lady  bright, 

Slumbering,  lies. 

Wrapped  in  calm  maiden  dreams, 
Where  the  pale  moonlight  streams, 

Softly  she  sleeps. 

I  do  not  know  her  face, 

Pure  as  the  lonely  star 
That  in  yon  darkling  space 

Shineth  afar ; 

Never  with  soft  command 
Touched  I  her  willing  hand, 

Kissed  I  her  lips. 


1 48  FORESHA  D  O  WINGS. 

I  have  not  heard  her  voice, 

I  do  not  know  her  name ; 
Yet  doth  my  heart  rejoice, 

Owning  her  claim; 
Yet  am  I  true  to  her  ; 
All  that  is  due  to  her 
Sacred  I  keep. 

Never  a  thought  of  me 

Troubles  her  soft  repose; 
Courant  of  mine  may  be 

Lily  nor  rose. 
They  may  not  bear  to  her 
This  heart's  fond  prayer  to  her, 

Yet —  she  is  mine. 

Wind  of  the  winter  night, 

Over  the  fields  of  snow, 
Over  the  hills  so  white, 
Tenderly  blow! 
Somewhere  red  roses  bloom; 
Into  her  warm,  hushed  room, 

Bear  thou  their  breath. 


FORESHADOWINGS  149 

Whisper —     Nay,  nay,  thou  sprite, 
Breathe  thou  no  tender  word ; 
Wind  of  the  winfer  night, 

Die  thou  unheard. 
True  love  shall  yet  prevail, 
Telling  its  own  sweet  tale: 
Till  then  I  wait. 


AN    OLD-FASHIONED    GARDEN. 

AN  old-fashioned  garden  ?     Yes,  my  dear, 
No  doubt  it  is.     I  was  thinking  here 
Only  to-day,  as  I  sat  in  the  sun, 
How  fair  was  the  scene  I  looked  upon ; 
Yet  wondered  still,  with  a  vague  surprise, 
How  it  might  look  to  other  eyes. 


Tis  a  wide  old  garden.     Not  a  bed 
Cut  here  and  there  in  the  turf;  instead, 
The  broad  straight  paths  run  east  and  west, 
Down  which  two  horsemen  could  ride  abreast, 
And  north  and  south  with  an  equal  state, 
From  the  gray  stone  wall  to  the  low  white  gate. 


AN  OLD-FASHIONED   GARDEN.  151 

And,  where  they  cross  on  the  middle  line, 

Virgin's-bower  and  wild  woodbine 

Clamber  and  climb  at  their  own  sweet  will 

Over  the  latticed  arbor  still; 

Though,  since  they  were  planted,  years  have  flown, 

And  many  a  time  have  the  roses  blown. 


To  the  right  the  hill  runs  down  to  the  river, 
Where  the  willows  droop  and  the  aspens  shiver, 
And  under  the  shade  of  the  hemlock-trees 
The  low  ferns  nod  to  the  passing  breeze ; 
There  wild  flowers  blossom,  and  mosses  creep 
With  a  tangle  of  vines  o'er  the  wooded  steep. 


So  quiet  it  is,  so  cool  and  still, 

In  the  green  retreat  of  the  shady  hill! 

And  you  scarce  can  tell,  as  you  look  within, 

Where  the  garden  ends  and  the  woods  begin. 

But  here,  where  we  stand,  what  a  blaze  of  light, 

What  a  wealth  of  color,  makes  glad  the  sight ! 


152  AN  OLD-FASHIONED   GARDEN. 

Red  roses  burn  in  the  morning  glow  ; 
White  roses  proffer  their  cups  of  snow ; 
In  scarlet  and  crimson  and  cloth-of-gold 
The  zinnias  flaunt,  and  the  marigold  ; 
And  stately  and  tall  the  lilies  stand, 
Like  vestal  virgins,  on  either  hand. 


Here  gay  sweet-peas,  like  butterflies, 
Flutter  and  dance  under  summer  skies; 
Blue  violets  here  in  the  shade  are  set, 
Wi:h  a  border  of  fragrant  mignonette ; 
And  here  are  pansies  and  columbine, 
And  the  burning  stars  of  the  cypress-vine. 


Stately  hollyhocks,  row  on  row, 

Golden  sunflowers,  all  aglow, 

Scarlet  poppies,  and  larkspurs  blue, 

Asters  of  every  shade  and  hue ; 

And  over  the  wall,  like  a  trail  of  fire, 

The  red  nasturtium  climbs  high  and  higher. 


AN  OLD-FASHIONED   GARDEN.  153 

My  lady's-slippers  are  fair  to  see, 

And  her  pinks  are  as  sweet  as  sweet  can  be, 

With  gillyflowers  and  mourning-brides, 

And  many  another  flower  besides. 

Do  you  see  that  rose  without  a  thorn  ? 

It  was  planted  the  year  my  Hal  was  born. 


And  he  is  a  man  now.     Yes,  my  dear, 

An  old-fashioned  garden  !     But,  sitting  here, 

I  think  how  often  lover  and  maid 

Down  these  long  flowery  paths  have  strayed, 

And  how  little  feet  have  over  them  run 

That  will  stir  no  more  in  shade  or  sun. 


As  one  who  reads  frpm  an  open  book, 
On  these  fair  luminous  scrolls  I  look ; 
And  all  the  story  of  life  is  there, — 
Its  loves  and  losses,  hope  and  despair. 
An  old-fashioned  garden  —  but  to  my  eyes 
Fair  as  the  hills  of  Paradise. 
20 


DISCONTENT. 


(The  Brier  Rose  speaks.) 

I  CLING  to  the  garden  wall 

Outside,  where  the  grasses  grow ; 
Where  the  tall  weeds  flaunt  in  the  sun, 

And  the  yellow  mulleins  blow. 
The  dock  and  the  thistle  crowd 

Close  to  my  shrinking  feet, 
And  the  gypsy  yarrow  shares 

My  cup  and  the  food  I  eat. 

The  rude  winds  toss  my  hair, 
The  wild  rains  beat  me  down, 

The  way-side  dust  lies  white 
And  thick  on  my  leafy  crown. 


DISCONTENT,  155 

I  cannot  keep  my  robes 

From  wanton  fingers  free, 
And  the  veriest  beggar  dares 

To  stop  and  gaze  at  me. 

Sometimes  I  climb  and  climb 

To  the  top  of  the  garden  wall, 
And  I  see  her  where  she  stands, 

Stately  and  fair  and  tall  — 
My  sister,  the  red,  red  Rose, 

My  sister,  the  royal  one, 
The  fairest  flower  that  blows 

Under  the  summer  sun ! 

What  wonder  that  she  is  fair  ? 

What  wonder  that  she  is  sweet  ? 
The  treasures  of  earth  and  air 

Lie  at  her  dainty  feet; 
The  choicest  fare  is  hers, 

Her  cup  is  brimmed  with  wine; 
Rich  are  her  emerald  robes, 

And  her  bed  is  soft  and  fine. 


156  DISCONTENT. 

She  need  not  lift  her  head 

Even  to  sip  the  dew; 
No  rude  touch  makes  her  shrink 

The  whole  long  summer  through. 
Her  servants  do  her  will ; 

They  come  at  her  beck  and  call. 
Oh,  rare  is  life  in  my  lady's  bovvers 

Inside  of  the  garden  wall ! 


(The  Garden  Rose  speaks.) 

The  garden  path  runs  east, 

And  the  garden  path  runs  west; 
There's  a  tree  by  the  garden  gate, 

And  a  little  bird  in  a  nest. 
It  sings  and  sings  and  sings ! 

Does  the  bird,  I  wonder,  know 
How,  over  the  garden  wall, 

The  bright  days  come  and  go? 


DISCONTENT.  157 

The  garden  path  runs  north, 

And  the  garden  path  runs  south ; 
The  brown  bee  hums  in  the  sun, 

And  kisses  the  lily's  mouth ; 
But  it  flies  away,  away, 

To  the  birch-tree,  dark  and  tall. 
What  do  you  find,  O  brown  bee, 

Over  the  garden  wall  ? 

With  ruff  and  farthingale, 

Under  the  gardener's  eye, 
In  trimmest  guise  I  stand  — 

Oh,  who  so  fine  as  I  ? 
But  even  the  light  wind  knows 

That  it  may  not  play  with  me, 
Nor  touch  my  beautiful  lips 

With  a  wild  caress  and  free. 

Oh,  straight  is  the  garden  path, 
And  smooth  is  the  garden  bed, 

Where  never  an  idle  weed 
Dares  lift  its  careless  head. 


158  DISCONTENT. 

But  I  know  outside  the  wall 
They  gather,  a  merry  throng; 

They  dance  and  flutter  and  sing, 
And  I  listen  all  day  long. 

The  Brier  Rose  swings  outside; 

Sometimes  she  climbs  so  high 
I  can  see  her  sweet  pink  face 

Against  the  blue  of  the  sky. 
What  wonder  that,  she  is  fair, 

Whom  no  strait  bonds  enthrall? 
Oh,  rare  is  life  to  the  Brier  Rose, 

Outside  of  the  garden  wall ! 


THE  DOVES  AT  MENDON. 

"  Coo  !  coo  !  coo ! "  says  Arne, 
Calling  the  doves  at  Mendon ! 

Under  the  vine-clad  porch  she  stands, 
A  gentle  maiden  with  willing  hands, 
Dropping  the  grains  of  yellow  corn. 
Low  and  soft,  like  a  mellow  horn, 
While  the  sunshine  over  her  falls, 
Over  and  over  she  calls  and  calls 

"Coo!  coo!  coo!"  to  the  doves - 
The  happy  doves  af  Mendon. 

"  Coo  !  coo !  coo  i  "  says  Arne, 
Calling  the  doves  at  Mendon! 


160  THE  DOVES  AT  MENDON. 

With  a  rush  and  a  whir  of  shining  wings, 
They  hear  and  obey  —  the  dainty  things  ! 
Dun  and  purple  and  snowy  white, 
Clouded  gray,  like  the  soft  twilight, 
Straight  as  an  arrow  shot  from  a  bow, 
Wheeling  and  circling  high  and  low, 

Down  they  fly  from  the  slanting  roof 
Of  the  old  red  barn  at  Mendon. 

"  Coo  !  coo !  coo  !  "  says  Arne, 
Calling  the  doves  at  Mendon  i 

Baby  Alice  with  wide  blue  eyes 
Watches  them  ever  with  new  surprise, 
While  she  and  Wag  on  the  mat  together 
Joy  in  the  soft  midsummer  weather. 
Hither  and  thither  she  sees  them  fly, 
Gray  and  white  on  the  azure  sky, 

Light  and  shadow  against  the  green 
Of  the  maple  grove  at  Mendon. 

"  Coo  !  coo  !  coo  !  "  says  Arne", 
Calling  the  doves  at  Mendon  I 


THE  DOVES  AT  MENDON.  161 

Down  they  flutter  with  timid  grace, 
Lured  by  the  voice  and  the  tender  face, 
Till  the  evening  air  is  all  astir 
With  the  happy  strife  and  the  eager  whir. 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
And  then  a  rush  through  the  ether  blue ; 
While  Arne  scatters  the  yellow  corn 
For  the  gentle  doves  at  Mendon. 

"  Coo  !  coo  !  coo  !  "  says  Arne, 
Calling  the  doves  at  Mendon  ! 

They  hop  on  the  porch  where  the  baby  sits, 
They  come  and  go,  as  a  shadow  flits, 
Now  here,  now  there,  while  in  and  out 
They  crowd  and  jostle  each  other  about ; 
Till  one,  grown  bolder  than  all  the  rest, — 
A  snow-white  dove  with  an  arching  breast, — 

Softly  lights  on  her  outstretched  hand 

Under  the  vines  at  Mendon. 

"  Coo  !  coo  !  coo  !  "  says  Arne, 
Calling  the  doves  at  Mendon  ! 


1 52  THE  DOVES  AT  MEN  DON. 

A  sound,  a  motion,  a  flash  of  wings, — 
They  are  gone  —  like  a  dream  of  heavenly  things 
The  doves  have  flown  and  the  porch  is  still, 
And  the  shadows  gather  on  vale  and  hill. 
Then  sinks  the  sun,  and  the  mountain  breeze 
Stirs  in  the  tremulous  maple  trees; 

While  Love  and  Peace,  as  the  night  comes 
down, 

Brood  over  quiet  Mendon  ! 


A   LATE    ROSE. 

I  SENT  a  little  maiden 

To  pluck  for  me  a  rose, 
The  sweetest  and  the  fairest 

That  in  the  garden  grows, — 
A  blush-rose,  proud  and  tender, 
Upon  its  stem  so  slender, 
Swaying  in  dreamy  splendor 
Where  yellow  sunshine  glows. 

Back  came  the  little  maiden 
With  drooping,  downcast  head, 

And  slow,  reluctant  footsteps, 
And  this  to  me  she  said : 

"  I  find  no  sweet  blush-roses 

In  all  the  garden-closes: 

There  are  no  summer  roses; 
It  must  be  they  are  dead ' " 
163 


164  A    LATE  ROSE. 

Then  bent  I  to  the  maiden 

And  touched  her  shining  hair, — 
Dear  heart !    in  all  the  garden 

Was  nothing  half  so  fair ! 
"  Nay  !  "  said  I,  "  let  the  roses 
Die  in  the  garden-closes 
Whenever  fate  disposes, 
If  I  this  rose  may  wear!" 


PERIWINKLE. 

TINKLE,  tinkle, 
Periwinkle ! 
Soft  and  clear, 
Far  or  near, 

Still  the  mellow  notes  I  hear ! 
Up  and  down  the  sunny  hills, 
Here  you  go,  there  you  go, 
Where  the  happy  mountain  rills 

Tinkle  soft,  tinkle  low; 
Where  the  willows,  all  a-quiver, 
Dip  their  long  wands  in  the  river, 
And  the  hemlock  shadows  fall 
By  the  gray  rocks,  cool  and  tall — 
In  and  out, 
And  round  about, 
Here  you  go, 
There  you  go! 
165 


166  PERIWINKLE. 

Tinkle,  tinkle, 
Periwinkle ! 

Here  and  there, 
Everywhere, 
Floats  the  music  on  the  air! 

Through  the  pastures  wide  and  free, 

Here  you  go,  there  you  go, 
Making  friends  with  bird  and  bee, 

Flying  high,  flying  low  ; 
In  and  out,  where  lilies  blowing 
Nod  above  wild  grasses  growing, 
Where  the  sweet-fern  and  the  brake 
All  around  rich  odors  make, 
Where  the  mosses  cling  and  creep 
To  the  rocks,  and  up  the  steep  — 
In  and  out 
You  wind  about, 
Here  and  there, 
Everywhere  ! 

Tinkle,  tinkle, 
Periwinkle ! 


PERIWINKLE.  167 

Day  is  done, 
And  the  sun 
Now  its  royal  couch  hath  won! 

Homeward  through  the  winding  lane, 

Here  you  go,  there  you  go, 
While  the  bell  in  sweet  refrain 
Tinkles  clear,  tinkles  low, — 
Tinkles  softly  through  the  gloaming, 
"  Drop  the  bars  —  I'm  tired  of  roaming 
Here  and  there,  everywhere 
Through  the  pastures  wide  and  fair. 
Home  is  best, 
Home  and  rest ! " 
Through  the  bars  goes  Periwinkle, 
While  the  bell  goes  tinkle,  tinkle, 

Low  and  clear, 
Saying  softly,  "  Night  is  here  !  " 


AFTERNOON. 

0  PERFECT  day, 

1  bid  thee  stay ! 

Too  fast  thy  glad  hours  slip  away; 
The  morn,  the  noon, 
Have  fled  too  soon, — 

Delay,  O  golden  afternoon ! 

O  peerless  Sun, 

Thou  radiant  one 
Whose  dazzling  course  is  half-way  run, 

Stay,  stay  thy  flight 

Down  yon  blue  height, 
Nor  haste  thee  to  the  arms  of  night ! 

The  west  wind  blows 
O'er  beds  of  rose, 
But  does  not  stir  my  deep  repose. 


AFTERNOON.  169 

In  dreamful  guise 

I  close  mine  eyes, 

Borne  on  its  wings  to  Paradise. 


Beneath  this  tree 

Half  consciously 
I  share  the  life  of  all  things  free, 

Hearing  the  beat 

Of  rhythmic  feet, 
As  the  grasses  run  my  hand  to  meet. 

The  wild  bee's  hum, 

The  lone  bird's  drum, 
O'er  the  wide  pastures  faintly  come; 

And  soft  and  clear 

Falls  on  my  ear 
The  cow-bell's  tinkle,  far  and  near ! 

Before  my  eyes 
Three  blue  peaks  rise, 
Piercing  the  bright  autumnal  skies; 


170  AFTERNOON. 

Silent  and  grand, 
On  either  hand, 
Far  mountain  heights  majestic  stand. 

By  wreaths  of  mist 
The  vales  are  kissed, — 

Fair,  floating  clouds  of  amethyst, 
That  follow  on, 
Through  shade  and  sun, 

Where'er  the  river's  course  may  run. 

Here,  looking  down 

On  rooftrees  brown, 
L  catch  fair  glimpses  of  the  town. 

There,  far  away, 

The  shadows  play 
On  crags  and  boulders,  huge  and  gray. 

All  whispering  low, 
The  breezes  go, — 
The  wandering  birds  flit  to  and  fro ; 


AFTERNOON.  171 

Winged  motes  float  by 
Me  as  I  lie, 
And  yellow  leaves  drop  silently. 

The  morn,  the  ribon, 

Have  fled  too  soon, — 
Delay,  O  golden  afternoon, 

While  with  rapt  eyes 

My  spirit  flies 
From  yon  blue  peaks  to  Paradise  ! 


THE    LADY    OF   THE    PROW. 

BERMUDA,  MAY,  1883. 

THE  salt  tides  ebb,  the  salt  tides  flow, 
From  the  near  isles  the  soft  airs  blow; 
From  leagues  remote,  with  roar  and  din, 
Over  the  reefs  the  waves  rush  in; 
The  wild  white  breakers  foam  and  fret, 
Day  follows  day,  stars  rise  and  set; 
Yet,  grandly  poised,  as  calm  and  fair 
As  some  proud  spirit  of  the  air, 
Unmoved  she  lifts  her  radiant  brow,— 
She,  the  White  Lady  of  the  Prow ! 

The  winds  blow  east,  the  winds  blow  west, 
From  woodlands  low  to  the  eagle's  nest; 
The  winds  blow  north,  the  winds  blow  south. 
To  steal  the  sweets  from  the  lily's  mouth  ! 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  PROW.  173 

We  come  and  go;    we  spread  our  sails 
Like  sea-gulls  to  the  favoring  gales ; 
Or,  soft  and  slow,  our  oars  we  dip 
Under  the  lee  of  the  stranded  ship. 
Yet  little  recks  she  when  or  how, 
The  grand  White  Lady  of  the  Prow. 

We  laugh,  we  love,  we  smile,  we  sigh, 

But  never  she  heeds  as  we  glide  by, — 

Never  she  cares  for  our  idle  ways, 

Nor  turns  from  the  brink  of  the  world  her  gaze  ! 

What  does  she  see  when  her  steadfast  eyes 

Peer  into  the  sunset  mysteries, 

And  all  the  secrets  of  time  and  space 

Seem  unfolded  before  her  face  ? 

What  does  she  hear  when,  pale  and  calm, 

She  lists  for  the  great  sea's  evening  psalm  ? 

Speak,  Lady,  speak !     Thy  sealed  lip, 
Thou  fair  white  spirit  of  the  ship, 
Could  tell  such  tales  of  high  emprise, 
Of  valorous  deeds  and  counsels  wise! 


174  THE  LADY  OF  THE  PROW. 

What  prince  shall  rouse  thee  from  thy  trance, 

And  meet  thy  first  revealing  glance, 

Or  what  Pygmalion  from  her  sleep 

Bid  Galatea  wake  and  weep  ? 

The  wave's  wild  passion  stirs  thee  not} — 

Oh,  is  thy  life's  long  love  forgot  ? 

How  canst  thou  bear  this  tranced  calm 
By  sunlit  isles  of  bloom  and  balm, — 
Thou  who  hast  sailed  the  utmost  seas, 
Empress  alike  of  wave  and  breeze ; 
Thou  who  hast  swept  from  pole  to  pole, 
Where  the  great  surges  swell  and  roll ; 
Breasted  the  billows  white  with  wrath, 
Rode  in  the  tempest's  fiery  path, 
And  proudly  borne  to  waiting  hands 
The  glorious  spoil  of  farthest  lands  ? 

How  canst  thou  bear  this  silence,  deep 
And  tranquil  as  an  infant's  sleep, — 
Thou  who  hast  heard  above  thy  head 
The  white  sails  sing  with  wings  outspread ; 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  PROW.        175 

Thou  whose  strong  soul  has  thrilled  to  feel 
The  swift  rush  of  the  ploughing  keel, 
The  dash  of  waves,  and  the  wild  uproar 
Of  ocean  lashed  from  shore  to  shore  ? 
How  canst  thou  bear  this  changeless  rest, 
Thou  who  hast  made  the  world  thy  quest  ? 

O  Lady  of  the  stranded  ship, 

Once  more  our  lingering  oars  we  dip 

In  the  clear  blue  that  round  thee  lies, 

Fanned  by  the  airs  of  Paradise! 

Farewell !   farewell !     But  oft  when  day 

On  our  far  hill-tops  dies  away, 

And  night's  cool  winds  the  pine-trees  bow, 

Our  eyes  will  see  thee,  even  as  now, 

Waiting  —  a  spirit  pale  and  calm  — 

To  hear  the  great  sea's  evening  psalm ! 


GRANT. 

AUGUST  8,  1885. 

GOD  sends  his  angels  where  he  will, 
From  world  to  world,  from  star  to  star: 

They  do  his  bidding  as  they  fly, 
Whether  or  near  or  far! 

Whither  it  went,  or  what  its  quest, 
I  know  not;  but  one  August  day 

A  great  white  angel  through  the  far 
Dim  spaces  took  its  way; 

Until  below  it  our  fair  earth, 
Like  a  rich  jewel  fitly  hung  — 

An  emerald  set  with  silver  gleams  — 
In  the  blue  ether  swung. 
176 


GRANT.  177 

The  angel  looked;  the  angel  paused; 

Then  down  the  starry  pathway  swept, 
Till  mount  and  valley,  hill  and  plain, 

Beneath  its  vision  slept. 

Poised  on  a  far  blue  mountain  peak, 

It  saw  the  land,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Lifting  in  veiled  splendor  up 

The  banner  of  the  free  ! 

From  tower  and  turret,  spire  and  dome, 
From  stately  halls,  and  cabins  rude, 

Where  crag  and  cliff  and  forest  meet 
In  awful  solitude, 

It  saw  strange,  sombre  pennants  float, 
Black  shadows  on  the  summer  breeze 

That  bore,  from  shore  to  shore,  the  wail 
Of  solemn  symphonies. 

It  saw  long  files  of  armed  men, 
Clad  in  a  garb  of  faded  blue, 
23 


17*$  GRANT. 

Pass  up  and  down  the  sorrowing  land 
As  if  in  grand  review., 

It  saw  through  crowded  city  streets, 
Funereal  trains  move  to  and  fro, 

With  tolling  bells,  and  muffled  drums, 
And  trumpets  wailing  low. 

Descending  then  the  angel  sought 
A  stern,  sad  man  of  many  cares ; — 

Ah,  oft  before  have  mortals  talked 
With  angels,  unawares ! 

The  angel  spake,  as  man  to  man : — 

"  What  does  it  mean,  O  friend  ?  "  it  cried, 

"These  sad-browed  hosts,  these  weeds  of  woe, 
This  mourning  far  and  wide  ? " 

The  stranger  answered  in  amaze, — 

"  Know  you  not  what  the  whole  world  knows  ? 

To  his  long  home,  thus  grandly  borne, 
Earth's  greatest  warrior  goes. 


GRANT.  179 

"  The  foremost  soldier  of  his  age, 
The  victor  on  full  many  a  field  — 

Who  saw  the  bravest  of  the  brave 
To  his  stern  prowess  yield." 

The  angel  sighed.     "  That  means,"  it  said, 
"  Tumult  and  anguish,  pain  and  death, 

And  countless  sons  of  men  borne  down 
By  the  fierce  cannon's  breath ! " 

Then  passed  from  sight  the  heavenly  guest, 

And  from  the  mountain-top  again 
Took  its  far  flight  from  North  to  South, 

Above  the  homes  of  men. 

But  still,  where'er  it  went,  it  saw 
The  starry  banners  half-mast  high, 

And  tower  and  turret  hung  with  black 
Against  the  reddening  sky  ! 

Still  saw  long  ranks  of  armed  men 

Who  for  the  blue  had  worn  the  gray  — 


I  So  GRANT. 

Still  saw  the  sad  processions  pass, 
Darkening  the  summer  day ! 

"  Was  this  their  conqueror  whom  you  mourn  ?  " 

The  angel  said  to  one  who  kept 
Lone  watch  where,  deep  in  grass-grown   graves, 

Young  Southern  soldiers  slept. 

"  Victor,  yet  friend,"  the  answer  came, 

"  Even  theirs  who  here  their  life-blood  poured ! 

He,  when  the  bitter  field  was  won, 
Was  first  to  sheathe  the  sword, 

"  And  cry :    '  O  brothers,  take  my  hand  — 
Brave  foemen,  let  us  be  at  peace  ! 

O'er  all  the  undivided  land 
Let  clash  of  conflict  cease  ! '  " 

The  wondering  angel  went  its  way 

From  world  to  world,  from  star  to  star, 

Where  planet  unto  planet  turned, 
And  suns  blazed  out  afar. 


GRANT.  181 

"  Learn,  learn,  O  universe,"  it  cried, 
"  How  great  is  he  whose  foemen  lay 

Their  love  and  homage  at  his  feet, 
On  this  —  his  burial  day  !  " 


THOU    AND    I. 

APRIL  days  are  over! 
O  my  gay  young  lover, 
Forth  we  fare  together 
In  the  soft  May  weather; 
Forth  we  wander,  hand  in  hand, 
Seeking  an  enchanted  land 
Underneath  a  smiling  sky, 

So  blithely  —  thou  and  I ! 

Soft  spring  days  are  over ! 
O  my  ardent  lover, 
Many  a  hill  together, 
In  the  July  weather, 
Climb  we  when  the  days  are  long 
And  the  summer  heats  are  strong, 
And  the  harvest  wains  go  by, 
So  bravely  —  thou  and  I ! 


THOU  AND  I.  183 

July  days  are  over ! 
O  my  faithful  lover, 
Side  by  side  together 
In  the  August  weather, 
When  the  swift,  wild  storms  befall  us, 
And  the  fiery  darts  appall  us, 
Wait  we  till  the  clouds  sweep  by, 
And  stars  shine  —  thou  and  I ! 

Summer  days  are  over! 
O  my  one  true  lover, 
Sit  we  now  alone  together 
In  the  early  autumn  weather! 
From  our  nest  the  birds  have  flown 
To  fair  dreamlands  of  their  own, 
And  we  see  the  days  go  by, 
In  silence  —  thou  and  I ! 

Storm  and  stress  are  over! 
O  my  friend  and  lover, 
Closer  now  we  lean  together 
In  the  Indian-summer  weather ; 


1 84  THOU  AND  I. 

See  the  bright  leaves  falling,  falling, 
Hear  the  low  winds  calling,  calling, 
Glad  to  let  the  world  go  by 
Unheeding  —  thou  and  I ! 

Winter  days  are  over ! 
O  my  life-long  lover, 
Rest  we  now  in  peace  together 
Out  of  reach  of  changeful  weather! 
Not  a  sound  can  mar  our  sleeping  - 
Breath  of  laughter,  or  of  weeping, 
May  not  reach  us  where  we  lie 
Uncaring  —  thou  and  I ! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


FormL9 — 15m-10,'48(B1039)444 


LOS  ANGELES 


^__ 


Dorr- 

Afternoon  songs. 


1885 


PS 

1547 
A258 
1885 


